


When Dany meets Jon

by Blerdist



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Azor Ahai, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jealousy, Jon Snow is a Stark, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Jon Snow knows nothing, Jonerys, Love Triangle, Sexual Tension, The Prince That Was Promised, jonsa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2018-08-10 15:53:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 29
Words: 25,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7851469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blerdist/pseuds/Blerdist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My version of the events that will lead to how the White Walkers will finally be defeated and who will finally sit on the Iron Throne when all is said and done. It's been a minute since I've worked on this. But since season 8 and WOW aren't coming any time soon, I figured I might as well have some fun in the interim. I have no idea how long I'll be working on this, but I do intend to finish it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. DAENERYS

With the news of Cersei’s death at the hands of her brother Jaime, and that dragons had returned to Westeros, spreading throughout the land, Dany began receiving pledges of fealty in the throne room. More and more lords and lordlings arrived by the day. Yara and Theon Greyjoy, Olenna Tyrell, the Sand Snakes of Dorne, Edmure Tully, Randyll and Dickon Tarly, most of the houses from below the Neck had knelt before her.

Not one from above the Neck, or from the Vale, had shown up yet though.

“Lord Varys,” Dany said, “why have no northern houses or those of the Vale come to swear their allegiance to me?”

Varys darted from a position behind the Iron Throne to one directly in front of her and Tyrion. He dipped his head. “Begging your pardon, your Grace, but they do not recognize you as their queen.”

Men and their egos. They would not give up their ways easily, she knew. Her father had had a difficult time bringing the North and the Vale to heel. It had been the death of him. That would not happen to Dany. These men would be brought to bare. “Who do they see as their liege lord then?”

Varys said, “The King in the North, Your Grace.”

Tyrion chuckled. “The King in the North? Is that what Roose Bolton is calling himself these days? He’s taking his cues from Robb Stark?”

Dany had grown quite fond of hearing his quips about the lords of Westeros. Watching him and Olenna Tyrell go at each other in a battle of wits was a thing of beauty.

The Starks were brutish oafs down to the last man and were responsible for much of the tumult in Westeros. Their ways were the old ways, and the old ways had to die if the Westeros Dany envisioned was to ever come to pass.

Varys looked squarely at Tyrion and put on a peculiar face. He was enjoying this. “House Bolton has been obliterated, Lord Tyrion. My little birds tell me Winterfell is once again in the hands of the Starks, led by none other than Lady Sansa and her bastard brother Jon Snow, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch and the aforementioned King in the North.”

Dany could not mistake the hush that fell across her throne room. Theon Greyjoy and Edmure Tully were both almost in tears. The new maester, Samwell, smiled as he stood in the corner, back stiff as a ramrod. Tyrion and Olenna Tyrell were pleased at the news too, and not in a sardonic way at all. Dany thought Lady Olenna incapable of such naked emotion.

Dany looked to Grey Worm and Missandei. They did not understand the solemnity that had befallen the chamber either.

“Sansa and Jon,” Tyrion said. “But…how?” 

Varys manner turned serious again. “My little birds were not able to ascertain all of it, my lord, but Lord Baelish supposedly played a part.”

Of course, he did. Lady Olenna had told Dany all about him. Ambitious, ruthless, a snake on two legs. She had expected him to turn up at court, flattering and lying in a futile scrabble for a position on her small council. If he was in Winterfell, with this pretender, this “King in the North”, and his sister, they were not wise enough to see through his machinations, thus, unfit to rule anyone. “We must ride north,” Dany said.

Tyrion turned to her, concerned. “Uhm…to what end, Your Grace?”

He knew the answer to that. “I told you,” Dany said. “I intend to crush the wheel. Eddard Stark helped install the usurper, and as far as I am concerned he killed my brother and his family, his children, the same as Robert Baratheon. He was as ruthless and evil as any of our fathers were. I know not how you feel about his kin, but there can be only one ruler of Westeros.”

Theon Greyjoy began to say something, but Varys stepped forward first. In a low voice, he said, “I believe your Grace may be somewhat…misinformed as to the late Lord Eddard Stark’s nature. He helped lead the rebellion. It is true, but–”

“I will not be told about the heart of a man like Eddard Stark,” Dany shouted. “We ride north, Lord Varys. Make preparations.”

“As you wish, Your Grace.” Varys bowed. Then Dany caught him looking to Tyrion before he departed. They would not change her mind on this. Nothing could.


	2. DAVOS

Davos rushed toward the Lord’s Chamber, a torch in his good hand. Neither of the wolves would take the room for their own, too many ghosts, Davos assumed. Jon–who would hear no tell of being called Your Grace or King in the North by Davos or Tormund in private–had said they went there when they wanted to be alone, when they wanted to remember. 

According to the Northerners, beautiful, elaborate tapestries, of Bran the Builder and the Age of Heroes and the history of the Starks, once lined this hall. Roose Bolton had had them destroyed, primarily because most of them depicted Boltons as villians to the Stark heroes.

Sometimes the stories get it right.

Davos came to the Lord’s Chamber door. He hesitated. No one liked disturbing Lady Sansa and Jon after they had supped.

They did so much for the smallfolk during the day, seeing to the ever increasing influx of refugees to WinterTown from places further north, reconstituting and training the Stark army, holding feasts in the evenings where some back bencher would be invited to come up and eat and talk with them, a traditional apparently Lord Eddard had maintained for many years.

Months ago, everyone–Davos, Lady Brienne and her squire Podrick, Tormund–had agreed that, unless some urgent matter was at hand, the Starks’ evenings should be their own. They were owed at least that. 

This was definitely an urgent matter.

Davos knocked on the door.

“Enter,” Jon said.

Davos found them sitting in front of the fireplace, Lady Sansa sewing, repairing one of Jon’s shirts, as Jon sat across from her, staring into the fire. He often did that now. If the Red Woman had put a spell on him before she left, he had showed no other signs of it. Still, it was a peculiar habit.

“Begging your pardon, Your Grace–”

“How many bloody times do I have to tell you don’t call me that?” Jon asked. Lady Sansa smirked and kept sewing. She seemed to love watching her brother’s discomfort with the formalities of courtly etiquette. Too much so even.

“You can flay me later,” Davos said. “Right now, I have news. There’s been a raven, from Castle Black.” Sansa and Jon stood, the tension in their manner palpable. Winter was here, and the White Walkers with it. But the wolves could rest easy. Davos smiled and handed Jon the letter. “Your brother Bran’s alive. He’s at Castle Black.” Jon and Sansa hugged and shouted for joy so loud Davos thought he might go hard of hearing from the clatter of it. It did Davos’ heart good to see them happy. “Lord Commander Tollett asks that you send an escort to retrieve your brother. The Night’s Watch can spare no men for the task.”

Jon said, “I shall g–”

“You will do no such thing,” Lady Sansa shouted. “A king does not leave his castle for such a small affair.” Jon regarded her. She was right and she knew it and she stood like it. Lady Sansa would accept nothing short of capitulation from Jon on the matter. He nodded. “And we shall send Edd a conscription as well.”

Jon said, “See to it, Davos. An escort of at least thirty men for my brother and another two hundred to support Castle Black.”

“Jon,” Sansa said curtly.

“You just said send Edd more men.”

“I did. But two hundred?”

“Fine. How many would you like to send?”

“I don’t know. Not two hundred.”

Gods, they argued like an old married couple. Davos said, “I’ll see to it that a hundred go north now, along with word that if the Lord Commander wants more, he need only ask.” That seemed to calm the wolves down.


	3. BRAN

Meera would not listen to reason. Bran could not make her see. She was as stubborn as Arya.

“He’s my brother. He deserves to know,” Bran said.

“He’s not your brother,” Meera insisted. “He’s your cousin. And you don’t even know what you saw.” Meera huffed and rolled over, her back now to him. Such a beautiful back.

They were in the Lord Commander’s chamber, Meera in the four post bed and Bran at the Lord Commander’s desk, Jon’s scribbles and notes still strewn across it from before he’d left with Sansa almost a year ago. This was the first real bed Meera had slept in, or even seen, in months, and when she first saw it, Bran could swear she drooled a little when he joked about passing out in it for a week.

Lord Commander Tollett must’ve seen the same thing, because whenever Bran and Meera happened to find themselves at Castle Black, he gave them the chamber. Although, Bran suspected the Lord Commander was also motivated by the fact that he did not particularly care for being Lord Commander and would do anything to forget that he was.

The first time Bran had met Lord Commander Tollett was five months ago, when he and Meera had first returned from beyond the Wall. As soon as Tollett found out Bran was Jon’s brother, he sent a raven to someone named Tormund Giantsbane who was apparently the new lord of the Last Hearth. Within a day, an escort of twenty men, led by Giantsbane himself, arrived at Castle Black to take Bran and Meera down to Winterfell. When Jon saw Bran, he mussed up his hair, scooped him up, slung him over his shoulder, and ran around the courtyard of their childhood home shouting, “You young pup! You bloody young pup!” Between his laughter and Jon’s shoulder jutting into his stomach as he stomped through the courtyard, Bran almost spewed.

But the joy had been short lived.

As it had been at the Three-eyed Raven’s cave that last time, when Bran had entered Castle Black, he had inadvertently unraveled whatever enchantment was in the wall that had kept the Night’s King and his White Walkers at bay. It wasn’t until a raven from Eastwatch came with word that some 25,000 dead had breached the wall and crossed into The Gift that Bran and Meera realized what had happened. Meera had swore Bran to secrecy about it as Jon, Sansa, and Tormund rode off to organize an evacuation of smallfolk and wildlings across the Last River into the Lonely Hills.

In the hopes of reinstating the enchantment, Bran and Meera went back beyond the wall again, in search of Uncle Benjen. When they found him, he told them nothing could be done. It was meant to come down. Winter was here.

As they sat in the Lord Commander’s quarters now, Bran could not help feeling as though all of this, everything that had happened, his parents dying, his brothers, was because of him, because he was impatient, because he wouldn’t listen, to his mother about climbing, to the Three-eyed Raven about taking care when using the Weirwoods.

Idiot.

“Stop it,” Meera said, her back still to him.

“Stop what?” Bran said, wiping his eyes. “I wasn’t doing anything.”

She rolled over. “You’re feeling sorry for yourself. Stop.” The sheets fell from her shoulder and Bran barely caught his breath as he looked at her. The way the failing light of evenfall danced across her as she lay in the bed, Meera Reed was the most beautiful thing Bran had ever seen. “The world needs you to be strong now,” she said. “I need you to be strong, to be the Three-eyed Raven. ‘I have to be ready.’ Do you remember saying that to me?”

He did. But that was before…

“And Jon,” she said. “How are you going to change things if you’re busy moping about?”

Bran could scarcely believe it when he’d first seen it: Sansa in the Godswood at Winterfell, disbelief painted across her face as she held a bloody knife and stood over Jon. Behind her was a genteel older man with a crooked smile and streaks of white in the hair on the sides of his head. Uncle Benjen had told him the man’s name was Petyr Baelish, a suitor of Bran’s mother from before she’d married his father. Uncle Brandon had thrashed him badly in a dual when they were boys. Bran had almost cried out to Sansa, but thoughts of Hodor steeled him against it. He could not bare to see Jon dead, and so he had let go of the Weirwood before he saw the rest of it. 

“You have to go back,” Uncle Benjen had shouted. “You have to see what happened.”

But Bran had not been able to find the strength to do that. It was not just Jon’s death he had watched. He had seen Sansa’s too. For if she was destined to murder Jon for this Petyr Baelish person, she was no longer a Stark, no longer Bran’s sister, and the Sansa he’d known as a boy would be as dead as Jon. No, Bran would not go back. He couldn’t.


	4. ARYA

After killing Walder Frey, Arya had come across the Brotherhood and Sandor Clegane just south of The Twins. She saw them, but they hadn’t seen her, and she likely would’ve kept it that way if she could’ve helped it.

Arya had been following them for a sennight, unable to decide if she wanted to kill the Hound or hug him. She’d heard them speak of Cersei’s death (Arya had so desperately wanted to be the one to kill that witch). And she heard them talk about the Starks retaking Winterfell, and the Brotherhood traveling north to swear allegiance to them. Arya knew, she just knew, they had to be talking about Jon. Who else could’ve defeated the Boltons? One night, Clegane had left the safety of the camp to take a piss, only to find a direwolf, teeth bared, ears back, with dark golden eyes and grey fur, ready to kill him as he relieved himself. Arya didn’t know how, but she was certain it was Nymeria. When Ser Beric and the others came rushing over, swords drawn, arrows nocked, Arya came out of her hiding place and stepped between the direwolf and the men without hesitation.

Ser Beric and Clegane were dumbfounded once they realized who she was, and Nymeria wouldn’t stop cooing and licking her face.

It was another month before they reached Winterfell. The castle was not what it once was, but Sansa and Jon were doing a fair job restoring it. What a surprise it had been to learn that Jon credited Sansa with the victory over Ramsay Bolton. Arya was proud of her sister, perhaps for the first time in her life. She was sorry to hear about all that Sansa had gone through too, the parts that Sansa would speak of anyway.

And Jon, well, Jon was Jon, only different. They both were, Arya supposed. Different that is. When she first came back, they spent weeks together not saying much, just practicing sword play or doing nothing at all. It was comfortable, but Arya wanted him to show her his scars, and she wanted to show him hers, trade stories of their hard times. But neither of them ever found the right words to start.

Jon had dispatched Arya and Clegane to Greywater Watch. He did not explain why, only that a crannogman would meet them somewhere within the swamp. The man had dropped out of a tree like a piece of rotten fruit. Arya didn’t know how he’d managed to get so close without her sensing him. He took them to the top of a tall hill in a bog, and that’s where they’d seen it. Three huge, beautiful, terrifying dragons gliding above the largest army ever assembled, the Targaryen sigil flying high at the head of the formation. Clegane thought there were at least fifty thousand men. Arya recognised the Unsullied among them. She’d seen some in Braavos. They were fierce fighters.

They followed the Targaryen forces for two days. As was to be expected, even on the Kingsroad, the force was having a time making it up the Neck. It would be at least a month before they reached Moat Cailin.

Plenty of time to prepare. 

On their way back to Winterfell now, Arya and the Hound had stopped to rest for the night. After supper, Clegane had demanded to see some of what Arya had learned while she was away.

She was happy to oblige.

Arya slapped him on the behind once more with the flat of her sword after popping up behind him again. He twirled around.

“Arrrggghhh! Damn you, girl.” Sandor hurdled toward her, his eyes crazed his sword flung back over his head. This was no longer a demonstration.

Nymeria moved to step between them, but before she could, Arya wheeled around Clegane again. Syrio would’ve been proud. Clegane lost his footing, and he and his sword crashed to the ground.

“You call that fighting?” he shouted. Arya smiled and moved to help him up. Clegane grabbed her arm and tried to yank her down to his level, but she used his shoulder as leverage to flip over his head and twist free. “You’re a bloody fucking demon monkey.”

Arya belted out a full-bodied laugh. “The Hound bested by a girl. Why what would Ser Beric say?”

“Fuck you and fuck Beric!”


	5. SANSA

Sansa had made it quite clear to everyone. No interruptions. The dragon queen and her army could be burning down the whole of the North. The bloody White Walkers could be outside the gates. She did not care. No one was to come near the Lord’s chamber after supper.

The last time all four of them had been together like this was…No, she mustn’t think about it. That would be foolish, the act of a summer child as Septa Mordane might say. Sansa missed that woman.

Arya was showing Jon, Bran, and Meera how she’d thrashed the Hound during a sparring session on their way back from the Neck. Jon was playing the Hound, and he was quite enjoying it, as were Bran and Meera. Their collective laughter was like a warm blanket for Sansa.

She could almost picture Robb teasing Jon about being the Hound. He and Jon would roughhouse into the hall, then spill down into the courtyard. Rickon would snicker as he petted Shaggy Dog, while Old Naan screamed bloody murder for them to behave, and Arya and Bran cheered them on. Her father and mother would…

There she went again.

Only Sansa could not hold back this time. As she sat in the corner, next to her parents’ bed, she wept quietly. Her siblings did not notice. Neither did Meera.

Meera Reed.

A sister could not ask for a better partner for her brother. Meera had protected Bran when it would have been far easier to walk away. She had sacrificed and suffered for her loyalty even more than Lord Howland had in Jon and Sansa’s service. He had never come to Winterfell to swear fealty, but he was willing to do whatever Sansa and Jon asked of him, far more so than any other bannerman. Meera was not family, but judging from the way Bran looked at her, Sansa suspected, hoped, that someday she might be. Sansa could see that Meera felt the same way about Bran as Bran did her, though the girl did not know it yet. 

Sansa had half a mind to bar the door and never let any of these people, her family, leave her sight. If someone had told her a year ago, two years ago, that this could be her life, Lady of Winterfell, Northern lords once more bending their knees to the grey direwolf of her house, her brothers and sister at her sides, she would have thought them mad, or at the very least, trying to manipulate her for their own ends.

Petyr.

Littlefinger had been right after all. He was not the ally Sansa wanted, but he was the one she had. She knew him well enough now to be able to get what she needed from him without becoming ensnared. Usually. Managing Littlefinger was akin to herding a lizard lion. It could be done, but one had to be careful.

“Sansa,” Bran said. “We are going down to the crypts. Are you coming?”

“What do we need to go down there for?” she asked.

“He won’t say until we all go down there,” Arya answered.

Jon threw Bran on his back and the lot of them were off, Ghost and Nymeria ahead of them as they went down into the bowels of the castle.

They came to their mother and father’s crypts first. Mother’s was empty, and father’s…the kneeling and weeping went on for some time, even Meera cried. Next were Robb, Rickon, and Robb’s wife Talisa’s crypts. The stonecutter had gotten Robb and Rickon’s likenesses almost perfect. Robb looked as brave and handsome as Sansa had remembered him, and little Rickon looked every bit the wild animal he’d probably become. Sansa could not say how accurate Talisa’s likeness was. She’d never met the woman, but if Robb had loved her, everyone else must’ve too. A tinge of jealousy came over Sansa as she thought about how well Talisa and Mother must’ve gotten on, all the time they got to spend together.

“We need to go over there,” Bran said. He was pointing at Aunt Lyanna’s crypt. They walked over. “Set me down,” he said. Jon did. Meera came and stood next to Bran. “I…I–Gods, I thought this would be easier.”

Arya mussed his hair. “Just say it, little brother.” She did it again and shared a laugh with Jon.

“Stop it,” Bran shouted. “This is serious.”

“All right, all right,” Sansa said, kneeling down and resting a hand on his shoulder. “Calm down. It’s okay. You know you can tell us anything.”

“This is different,” Meera said. “This will change all of your lives.”

Were they about to announce…? No. They couldn’t be. Sansa looked to Jon and Arya and could see they had the same notion. Arya said, “Are you two–”

“No,” Bran said, in a tone that everyone but Meera knew meant shut up, Arya. “Just listen.” He looked up at Jon. “I love you. You know that. But you are not our brother. You are not a Stark.”

“Bran!” Arya and Sansa shouted. They turned to Jon. He looked as if Bran had speared him through the heart.

“It’s true,” Meera said. What madness had befallen them that they could be so hurtful? Did Bran have designs on becoming Lord of Winterfell? Meera added, “He’s not a bastard either.”

Bran said, “You are the only son of Aunt Lyanna and the dragon prince. Jon, you are the rightful heir to the Iron Throne. Daenerys Targaryen is as much your blood as we are.”

Sansa could not take her eyes off Jon. If Littlefinger somehow got word of this…


	6. DAENERYS

Dany had never seen a crannogman before. Most were little taller than she. Their was something about them that made their stature seem greater though, a fierceness. Even as she and Tyrion had landed in the courtyard of Greywater Watch on the back of Drogon, the crannogmen that were there did not waiver. They would fight the dragon, with their spears and nets, until none were left.

If it came to that.

Dany and Tyrion climbed down off Drogon’s back. A dark-haired, bearded man wearing a green hooded cloak stepped forward and said, “ Welcome to Greywater Watch, Your Grace. I am Ser Howland Reed. It is an honor to finally meet you.”

Tyrion said, “Pardon me, Lord Howland , but isn’t it customary to kneel before your queen when introducing yourself?”

The crannogman smiled at him. “It is, Lannister.”

Drogon roared at Howland Reed, but the man did not move to bend a knee.

Whatever Dany thought of the Starks, she had to admit they invoked loyalty. Often, she thought back to the quiet that had fallen over the throne room when Varys had reported the obliteration of the Boltons and the recapture of Winterfell. This was not admiration, nor the kind of false love one might have for someone they’d only heard tales of or seen from afar once or twice. No, this was love. People loved the Starks.

It was a fact she could not ignore.

Dany said, “A pleasure to meet you as well, Lord Howland. I’m on my way to Winterfell. Your castle is obviously too small to accommodate my dragons and my host of sixty thousand.” That got every crannogmen’s attention. “But I was hoping Lord Tyrion and I, and a few dozen others, might be able to take advantage of your hospitality for a few nights?”

“Greywater Watch is yours, Your Grace.”

In Dany’s honor that night, Lord Howland held a feast. He was not what she had expected. If he’d been a bit younger in years, she might have even considered more than simply engaging him in drink and conversation. And if all northerners were as clever and brash as he, Dany would be hard-pressed not to fall in love with at least one. 

“Lady Olenna tells me you harbor hard feelings toward my late friend Ned Stark,” Lord Howland said. The castle’s great hall was crowded and noisy, and even though Dany was sitting right beside him, she could scarcely hear him. 

“I do, my lord.”

“Because of what happened to your father?”

“And my brother, his wife, and my niece and nephew.”

Lord Howland changed the subject after that. Some time later, as Dany prepared for sleep, Missandei came in and told her the crannogman was outside her chamber. “Begging your pardon for the hour, Your Grace,” he said. “But I was hoping to have a word.”


	7. TYRION

“Do you think it’s true?” Daenerys asked.

Honestly, Tyrion didn’t know. He was still digesting the story. He knew little of Ned Stark and even less of Howland Reed, other than that both were better men than he. But the dragon queen’s expression suggested an honest answer was not the counsel the lady needed. “Do I believe Eddard Stark, once considered the most honorable man in Westeros, deceived his best friend, his wife, and the rest of the realm, allowed himself to be slandered as an adulterer for seventeen years, just to protect the only surviving heir of a man whose impertinence almost led to the ruin of his family?”

Daenerys looked at the floor. “I know. It’s ridiculous, isn’t it?” Tyrion felt her pain. How long had she been driven solely by the belief that she was the last Targaryen, the rightful ruler of the seven kingdoms? How much had she endured alone? If Tyrion were in Daenerys position, Howland Reed’s story would be too much to hope for. Daenerys said, “When I was in Qarth, I had a vision.”

“Oh?” Tyrion grabbed a flagon and freshened up his ale. Gods, how he’d missed northern autumn ale. There was a time when he would’ve dismissed talk of visions out of hand. That was before he’d touched a dragon. “What did you see?”

“I was in the Red Keep, about to reach for the throne. As I moved to sit on it, snow started falling all around me. Do you think–”

“I think visions, like many things in life, are open to interpretation.” A headless dragon cannot fly. Tyrion did not want her doubting herself. Still, there was an opportunity for him to make the best of here, a chance to prevent a war that would benefit no one. “What do you know of Jon Snow and his sister? What have you heard?”

Daenerys seemed to know what he was trying to do, and she didn’t appreciate it. She leaned far back in her chair. “The people up here all seem to love them. I’ve heard tell that he is quite the swordsman as well. Lady Olenna has told me some of what Sansa Stark went through while she was in King’s Landing. I understand you married her.”

“That’s one way to put it.” Tyrion took a long drink and thought on his first morning as a married man, Shae yanking his pillow away, leering at him as he lay on the divan in his quarters. Even now, seeing her face in his mind’s eye…it still hurt. “Another might be that my father forced us together.”

“Did you ever bed her?”

“No.” Tyrion could see it in her face. Daenerys was proud of him. Admiration was hard for him to countenance, having never really had anyone’s before. “You and they have a lot in common, you know. Of all the Starks I’ve ever encountered, Sansa and Jon were the most gentle, the most honest.”

“People rarely love being ruled by cruel liars. Good lords are hard to come by.”

“And yet you, the breaker of chains, would war with one.” Tyrion’s words hit Daenerys harder than Tyrion had expected. If she were her father, he would be dead. “You’ve heard what my sister and my nephew did to Sansa in King’s Landing, and you’ve seen Jon Snow’s effect on the people of the North. Why make enemies out of people who should be some of your greatest natural allies? Do you not recall what happened in Slaver’s Bay, ruling without the rich? Now imagine trying to rule without the favor of the rich or the poor, and that will be the north after you fight the Starks.”

Daenerys considered it then called for Missandei. “Fetch Maester Samwell.”

“What are you thinking?” Tyrion asked.

“I would speak with our new maester about his friend Jon Snow. They served in the Night’s Watch together, did they not?”

“They did,” Tyrion said with a smile. He finished his ale and reached for the flagon again.


	8. JON

Ghost came up to Jon as Jon stared at the fireplace in his chamber. He licked Jon’s fingers then slid his head under Jon’s hand. “I’m all right, boy.”

But they both knew that wasn’t true.

Jon was not a Stark.

His whole life, Jon had said that, but he had never truly believed it. His fath–his uncle–had always said he and Arya looked more Stark, more of the first men, than the rest of their siblings, more than Sansa or Robb or Bran or Rickon with their Tully red-brown hair and blue eyes. That had been a point of pride, the one thing that always gave Jon comfort whenever Lady Catelyn unleashed her wrath upon him. That and Ghost. For who but a Stark could call such an animal their companion. 

You may not have my name, but you have my blood.

Lies.

Ygritte had told Jon his heart was of the north, the real north. She knew nothing. Had he been raised in King’s Landing, she would’ve called him a flowery southron prince, lords-in-waiting always at the ready to service his every need.

The door swung open, and Ghost whined and rose in anticipation of the touch of another set of familiar hands. “Jon,” Sansa said, stroking the direwolf, “if you talk to Davos about abdicating one more bloody time–what are you doing? Are you sulking again?” Jon kept staring at the fire. Sansa sat down beside him. “You can’t keep doing this. You have to talk to me.”

Had she been Arya, Jon would have already. Arya understood. She had seen his tears when they were children. Arya knew how badly Jon had wanted…had wanted…seven hells, had wanted Lady Catelyn to…to love him. She would know how much becoming a Stark and not just a Snow meant to Jon. “Go away.”

“You’re still father’s son.”

“I’m not. Not unless Starks have been behaving a lot more like Lannisters this whole time than anyone’s realized.”

“Look at me.” Sansa forced him to. “Father sacrificed everything. For you.”

“Lot of good it did him. What did he get for his trouble?”

Sansa put her hand on his chest. “This. The heart that restored his house, his family, that united his bannermen in saving countless lives of his people during the Evacuation to Skagos and the Battles of the New Gift and the Grey Hills.”

It was the kindest thing she’d ever said to him. Sansa had never thought much of Jon as a politician. He was fine with that. He never had any desire to be one. Receiving her praise for his military acumen, however, was important, especially after his showing at the Battle of Winterfell. He needed to redeem himself in her eyes. Why that was so important he did not know.

A knock on the door thankfully pierced the intimacy of the moment. Sansa took her hand off Jon and said, “Enter.”

“Sorry to interrupt, my lady,” Podrick said. “But there’s been a raven from Lord Manderly.” He handed Sansa the message.

“What news?” Jon asked.

“A parley. With Tyrion Lannister and Olenna Tyrell. They wish to discuss…an alliance.”

Sansa and Jon had been hoping to broach that very topic with the Targaryen queen via Samwell once she was further north. Her dragons and her army could turn the tide in their fight against the Others. Letting her and her army come up the Kingsroad unfettered, to see what the Long Night was doing to the north and its people, was a gamble. If it had failed, they would’ve been hard-pressed to defeat her. The armies of all the northern houses put together were not enough to fight a two front war.

But better to bend a knee to the dragon queen then become meat in the army of the dead.

Jon said, “What are the terms of the parley?”

“We meet in White Harbor. Two representatives each, no more than fifteen escorts for either side.”

Jon said to Podrick, “The small council is to convene in the Great Hall immediately. Have Arya and Bran join us.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Once there, Sansa relayed the news, which was welcomed by all. Their plan had worked, or at least, for now it was working. Arya said, “Clegane and I will lead the escort.”

“I will join you, my lady,” Brienne said.

Their eagerness put Jon at ease. He would not let another one of Ned Stark’s children be tricked or harmed. Not for anything. His uncle had bled for him. Now he would pay that back tenfold. He told Davos, “You will be my sister’s second.”

“Begging your pardon, Your Grace,” Lord Baelish said. “But I had hoped that I might take up that duty. I have no doubt Ser Davos would do a fine job, but I am better suited. For I am far more familiar with these manner of negotiations.”

Jon did not trust him further than he could throw him. And unfortunately Jon had questions about his father and mother that only Lord Baelish could answer. “No,” Jon said. “I would have you stay behind so that we might speak.”

Bran said, “I don’t think–”

“Not now.” Jon was still upset with him. And he would not be undermined by his little brot–cousin–in front of his small council.

Sansa said, “I would have Lord Baelish accompany me. No offense, Ser Davos.”

“None taken, my lady.”

“No,” Jon said. “You will take Davos.” It was her turn to listen to him.


	9. DAVOS

Lord Wyman was waiting just inside the gates of New Castle when Davos and Lady Sansa and the rest of them arrived, his considerable heft drooping over his sword belt. Watching a squire get the merman into his mail must’ve been something. “I’ve seen to quarters for you all, my lady. The Imp and Lady Olenna are already in theirs.”

“Good,” Lady Sansa said. A Manderly knight stepped forward to help her off her horse. “I can get down on my own, my lord. Thank you. Lord Wyman, I would have you join us when we sup with Lady Olenna and Lord Tyrion in private this night.” She got down, and the rest of the Stark party followed the lady wolf’s lead.

“No feast, my lady?” Lord Wyman asked.

“Perhaps tomorrow.”

“As you wish.”

Everyone followed Lord Wyman inside to the Merman’s Court. As great halls went, it was one of the more impressive, at least to Davos. Everything was sea-themed and reminded Davos of his time as a smuggler. It felt like years since Davos had been this close to the ocean. The salt in the air warmed his lungs, and its briny tinge on his tongue teased out a smile.

A sailor never stops loving the sea. 

Lady Arya asked, “How long have the Targaryens been here?”

“Two days,” Lord Wyman said. “I recalled the Imp’s appetites for reading and the pleasures of the flesh when he came with King Robert to visit your father, but he’s been rather quiet, kept to himself this time.”

Davos had never met the man, but he knew Lord Tyrion by reputation and a quiet man who kept to himself was not what he was known for.

Lady Arya said to her sister, “Doesn’t sound like him.”

“Not at all.”

“Perhaps he has changed,” Lord Wyman offered. “How many years has it been since you’ve seen the Imp, Lady Sansa.”

“Not enough,” Lady Arya answered for her. “Brienne and I would have a look around, Lord Manderly.”

“To what end,” Lady Sansa asked. “Do you think they mean to assassinate us?”

“Not all of us,” Lady Arya said.

A thumb is useless with no hand. A hand is useless with no thumb. Without Sansa, Jon could not control the smallfolk. Without Jon, Sansa could never garner enough trust and respect from the Stark bannerman to call on their armies. It might well be worth it to the Dragon Queen to sacrifice Lord Tyrion and Lady Olenna just so she could split Jon and Sansa up, draw one out to kill, then watch the other struggle to put up a defense as she ravaged the North. 

Davos expected Lady Sansa to blanch, but the girl–nay, the woman–looked to her sister and said, “See to it.” the courageous way Jon would’ve.

Two girls entered the hall as Lady Arya left. One was perhaps eighteen, and brown of hair, the other was a girl of thirteen, with hair the same deep, lurid green as that of the merman on the Manderly sigil. They stepped up to the Lady Wolf, smiled and curtsied.

“You remember my granddaughters Wynafryd and Wylla, Lady Sansa.”

“Of course. It’s good to see you, both. Seven blessings.”

Wylla Manderly said, “Seven blessings, Your Grace.”

“It’s my lady,” Wynafryd said. “She’s not a queen.”

“Why not? She rules same as her brother.”

* * *

“Sansa,” Lord Tyrion said. His smile was so wide it looked to split open his face. “It’s good to see you.” He took Lady Sansa’s hand and kissed it, before sitting down.

“Yes, girl,” Lady Olenna grabbed her and hugged her. “You’ve done well for yourself. Margaery would be proud.”

These were not the Imp and the Queen of Thorns Davos had heard so much about. Where were those people? The four of them sat down to sup alongside Lord Manderly in an otherwise empty Merman’s Court. Earlier, Ladies Sansa and Wynafryd had advised Lord Manderly to dine before supper. Davos hadn’t understood why they had said that until the first course came out. 

“My lord,” Lady Olenna told the Lord of White Harbor, “the way you slurp and smack as you eat that eel could murder the appetite of a thousand starving cannibals.”

If it had been Davos she were talking to, he’d have wanted to crawl into a hole and die after a comment like that, but Lord Manderly simply laughed.

After the second course, the business of the evening finally came up. Lord Tyrion said, “Let us not mince words. If it comes to war, Sansa, we will crush you. You know that. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be here. But that can be avoided if Jon bends a knee.”

Lady Sansa said, “My grandfather and my uncle acquiesced to a Targaryen once. And my father lost his life to another southron king.”

“Queen Daenerys is not Robert or Joffrey or her father,” Tyrion said. “She’s a good person, Sansa, as good as you and Jon.”

“What alternative do you have, girl? Hmm?” Lady Olenna said. “Would you throw away so soon all that you and your brother have won back for your family over history and foolish pride?”

Lady Sansa said, “One cannot know where to go if one does not remember where they have been, Lady Olenna.”

The Queen of Thorns smiled. Lady Sansa was holding her own amid all this posturing by these two masters of the art. In fact, she was doing more than that. She was thriving.


	10. JON

“Rhaegar Targaryen?” Lord Baelish said. “I was a mere boy of seventeen when he took your Aunt Lyanna.”

Jon said, “But you knew him?”

“I knew both of them, Your Grace. Why do you ask?”

Jon stared up at the huge branches of the weirdwood tree, spreading outwards like fingers. Somehow it was still warmer here in the Godswood than the rest of Winterfell. “My father never talked about either of them. And yet they played such a huge part in his life, in our family history.” Jon knew better than to trust Baelish with the truth. “I just want to know…I’d like to not repeat the mistakes of the past, my lord.”

“Well,” Baelish said smiling, “Lords of the Vale and the Starks uniting. I’d say you’re off to a pretty bad start, Your Grace.”

He was a funny man, a very funny man. Jon wondered how his uncles had managed to keep from killing him. Jon had only been talking to Lord Baelish a few minutes and already he felt the urge to snuff out his life. It wouldn’t take much. A forearm on his neck. A few moments of pressure. The very thought of him even near Sansa, let alone touching her…No, he needed answers. More importantly, what would Sansa say if she returned from White Harbor and found her beloved Littlefinger dead?

Best to conceal his contempt. “Help me then, my lord. Tell me what you know of the dragon prince. Where did he go wrong?”

“You mean, besides stealing away with your mother and marrying her?”

How did…? There had been no one else in the crypt. And when they’d come out they’d all agreed to keep it a secret. He couldn’t have known. Unless…

“It never made sense to me that a man as honorable as Ned Stark would step out on his wife, especially one as lovely as Catelyn Tully, even in a time of war. When word traveled throughout Westeros that he brought you home, I knew.”

No, he suspected. All of this was probably a bluff. Baelish had to be guessing, hoping that Jon would reveal the truth out of surprise and nervousness. Sansa had said Littlefinger was capable of such tactics. Jon should’ve worded his question more carefully.

“I’m not sure what you mean, my lord.”

“Yes you do,” Baelish said. He grinned. “You’re the only child of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. Ned Stark pretended you were his bastard to protect you from Robert Baratheon.” He slid close to Jon. They walked along the edge of the steaming black pool in the middle of the godswood. “I will not go so far as to tell that you should trust me, Jon. But I have declared for House Stark for all to see, and your Aunt Catelyn was like a sister. I am your ally, Your Grace. Now, who else knows your true parentage? Did your uncle tell any of his children?”

Jon wished Sansa was here. This man’s mouth moved far too fast for Jon. Still, Baelish had revealed himself. He had been guessing. How Baelish had ever even gotten it in his head to consider the notion no longer mattered. The only thing Jon could do was protect Sansa, Arya, Meera, and Bran. He had to be a better liar. “My uncle only told me the truth, my lord.”

“And your Uncle Benjen?”

“No, my lord.”

“Ned Stark, clever after all.”

Just a little bit of pressure on his neck, that’s all Jon would need to end his life.

Baelish looked Jon in the eye. “Your uncle certainly could keep a secret, couldn’t he? We must take as much care in how we handle the dragon queen, Your Grace.”

We?

“Your strategy of allowing her to come north has left us in a precarious position. If Queen Daenerys finds out you have a stronger claim on the throne than she, she’ll surely attack Winterfell with her dragons and burn us all to ash.” There was a glint in his eye now. Jon couldn’t quite figure out what put it there, but it left him uneasy. “Leave everything to Sansa and me, Your Grace. Together, we’ll put you on the Iron Throne.”

Jon could’ve cared less about the bloody throne. He just wanted his family together and safe. And he’d be damned if he left Sansa alone with this monster. He really would kill Baelish before he’d let that happen.

Jon and Lord Baelish left the godswood and made for the Great Hall. “Now,” Baelish said, “what can I tell you about Rhaegar and Lyanna?”


	11. SANSA

How could Jon have been so stupid? If he wanted to know about his father, they should have gone to Littlefinger together. Sansa had half a mind to choke some sense into her cousin. “Don’t do anything else. You’ve done enough already. I’ll deal with--”

“No,” Jon said. “I have a plan.”

Oh, this sounded promising. Sansa folded her arms as she sat next to him in front of the hearth in the Lord’s Chamber, the expression on her face not unlike her mother’s when she often looked upon Jon Snow. “And what is this plan?”

“Leave it, Sansa.”

One of the things Sansa loved most about Jon was his inability to hide from her. Unlike Petyr, she could always tell what was going on with Jon, when something had struck a nerve, when he was genuinely happy, when he was scared. Not even Arya could read him so well. This time though, Sansa honestly could not tell what was going on in Jon’s mind. That scared her more than Littlefinger knowing who Jon’s parents were. “If you kill him...or if our bannerman find out that your father is--”

“I know.”

Why was he so calm? Arya entered the Lord’s Chamber. “Everything all right?”

“Fine,” Jon said.

“What? No, it isn’t.” She turned to her sister. Perhaps Arya could make Jon see reason. “Did you hear what happened while we were away?”

“Aye.” Arya was as cool as Jon. She sat down on the other side of him.

Sansa did not know what to think. Not only had Jon spoken to Petyr without consulting her first, but he had talked to Arya about what had happened before her. The past few months, Sansa and Jon had made so much progress mending the rift between them. But perhaps the wound was too deep. Perhaps Jon had not meant any of it. Perhaps Petyr was right. Perhaps Jon intended to eventually rule without her. He was better at the great game then she realized. She knew that now. Sansa asked Arya, “Do you know what this supposed plan is?”

“Aye.”

“Are neither of you going to tell me?”

Arya said, “Leave it, Sansa. It’s best you’re not involved.”

They didn’t trust her. That had to be it. Sansa very much understood now how Jon must’ve felt immediately after the Battle of Winterfell. Hurt. Degraded. She looked at him, the words, believe in me, on the tip of her tongue. But she did not say them.

Bran and Meera arrived.

They had agreed to discuss the dragon queen’s offer as a family before taking it to the small council, a choice made before Sansa and Arya had left, before Jon had--why would he not let her help him? He could be so damn infuriating. Jon was good at battles. Sansa was good at politics. This was a simple matter of matching ability to a situation. Why couldn’t he see that?

Not even bloody Ramsay Bolton ever made Sansa this angry.

She wanted to scream, but instead she said, “The dragon queen offers peace and her dragons in exchange for an alliance through marriage.”

Shocked, and with a bit of endearing concern in her voice, Meera said, “Marriage?” 

“Aye,” Arya said. “One of the four of us.”

“That was made very clear,” Sansa said. “Whomever it is must be wed in less than a fortnight.”

“How do we choose?” Bran asked.

Jon said, “We don’t. It has to be me.”

“No, it doesn’t!” Sansa had had enough of his foolishness for one day.

“We could draw lots,” Arya said.

“I don’t like this,” Bran said.

“You think I want to wed?” Arya asked him. “And to a southroner no less?” She glanced over at Meera, rested a hand on Bran’s shoulder. “We all must make sacrifices, little brother, for the good of the family.”

“No,” Bran said. “There’s another way. I can use the godswood.”

The five of them considered it. A vote was impossible. They had only all just been reunited, and none of them would cast a ballot to send another away. Sansa was adamant Jon would not offer himself. If that’s what the dragon queen wanted, then a more formal offer was required. And besides, with the Others so close at hand, Jon’s focus should be on protecting the people not a wife. Drawing lots appealed to everyone but Meera, who claimed it wasn’t right to leave such an important decision up to chance. They had no choice but to take Bran up on his offer.

The five of them settled in to relax, drink ale. Sansa watched as Jon leaned over and whispered to Arya. Her sister nodded to whatever he’d said. Damn them both. “Bran, do you know about what Jon did while Arya and I were in White Harbor?”

“Aye.”

What? “Do you, Meera?”

“Aye.”


	12. SANSA/JON

Sansa wanted to jump out of her skin. “This changes things, my love,” Littlefinger said. “Rhaegar’s trueborn son, perhaps we don’t need the throne after all. If we can control Jon, we’ll never need to step forward. The power behind the throne.” She didn’t believe him. “What other option is there?”

Kill him. Petyr would never say it, not to Sansa, but that’s what he was going to do. Jon would have an accident not unlike King Robert’s. Sansa would never be able to prove anything, but she would know.

She had to strike first. There was no other option. But how? Ramsay had been easy. She had dreamed of it, every time he…and after as she and Theon ran through the forest. It was what had kept her going, what had driven her to be so bold with Jon when they’d first reunited.

Hate is a powerful aphrodisiac.

But Sansa did not hate Littlefinger. In truth, she did not know how she felt about the man. But if it came down to choosing between him and Jon, well, the pack must survive.

“Excuse me now, my love. Your cousin wishes to speak with me in the godswood,” Littlefinger said, backing away from Sansa. He bumped into Arya. “Pardon me, my lady.”

“Oh no, it was my fault.” They separated. “Pardon me, my lord.”

Strange. Arya was never polite to Lord Baelish. She never bumped into anyone either. You never even knew when she was in the room with you half the time. She was rather like a cat.

Unless…

Whatever Jon had planned was happening now. Sansa turned to watch Arya round a corner and walk out of sight. What had she just done to Petyr? Sansa flitted back around and followed Littlefinger to the godswood.

She stayed far enough behind so as to remain unseen.

Jon was waiting for him by the pond where her father used to sit and clean Ice. Jon greeted Lord Baelish. Lord Baelish greeted Jon. Sansa could not hear their conversation, but knowing Littlefinger, it was happening on two levels, one that Jon understood and then another that only Petyr did. Jon seemed agitated. His face had an expression all too familiar, sulking like, the way it often looked when they were children and Sansa or her mother had said something cruel to him. They strolled along the water. Sansa kept her distance but followed, waiting for something to happen.

Had Arya used poison? Some other assassin skill the Faceless Men had taught her during her time with them?

Jon and Lord Baelish stopped near a tree. Jon turned to him, poked a finger in Baelish’s chest.

Oh no. Jon stop. Remember Ramsay. This man is worse. Sansa could barely control him. Jon had no hope of doing so. Why wouldn’t he tell her what he was going to do?

Littlefinger said something and then, before even Jon could’ve possibly stopped him, he produced a blade and set up on Jon. They struggled mightily, rolling around in the snow, steam billowing from their mouths. Jon was on top. Then Petyr. Jon again. He held Petyr’s wrist as Petyr held the knife.

No. Stop it. Stop.

Jon smashed Petyr’s wrist against the ground and knocked the blade loose.

Sansa had to help. She moved from the tree she was behind to go grab the knife, but someone came up behind her and held her back.

“Stay here,” Arya whispered. Sansa looked back at her. Meera and Bran were with her sister.

Sansa said, “You don’t understand. If Jon kills him–”

“Jon’s not going to kill him,” Bran said.

“What?” Sansa turned to watch again.

Petyr managed to grab a small rock. He hit Jon in the head with it. Jon tumbled to the ground beside him. Petyr dashed for the knife, as Jon lay dazed. He had it.

No. “Let me go, Arya.” Sansa struggled, but it was no use. What were they doing? Now, Baelish was going to kill Jon. Did they not see? How could they not see?

With a yell, Petyr lunged at Jon and thrust downward with the force of his whole body. The knife pierced Jon through the stomach and he let out a gasp like all the life was rushing out of him.

Sansa’s heart dropped. She was back in King’s Landing, with Joffrey and Cersei and that crowd of monsters, Clegane holding her back as Ser Meryn…No!

She wrenched herself free of Arya and ran out to Jon. Baelish was just getting to his feet when he saw her. Sansa fell to her knees beside Jon as he bled into the snow. Oh how stupid could he have been? Sansa wept over Jon’s body.

“Sansa. I–I didn’t mean to…he attacked me.”

He would not get out of this. She would not let him get out of this. She would not leave it to chance that he might. Sansa grabbed the knife and stood. “I should have let Brienne cut you down.”

He flashed her the queerest of smiles. “Probably.”

Lords Royce and Cerwin walked out from behind a nearby thicket of trees. “Allow us the honor, my lady.”

How did?

Jon hopped to his feet. “My lords.”

“Are you all right, Your Grace?”

“Fine. Did you see it all?”

“We did, You Grace. Your brother showed us the perfect vantage point.”

“Excellent. Please take Lord Baelish into custody. See to it that he is kept under twenty four hour guard in the far tower.”

So that was the plan. Not to kill Baelish but to expose him, expose him the way he had countless others over the years.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Yohn Royce said.

Sansa and Baelish looked at each other, neither quite sure what to make of anything, especially Jon, who talked like it was noonday yet had blood dripping from his stomach. Lord Royce bound Lord Baelish’s hands behind him as Lord Baelish stared at Jon. “What do you intend to do with me?”

“For now,” Jon said, smiling at Arya and Bran and Meera as they approached. “Nothing. The dragon queen’s arrival takes priority. But you will answer for your betrayal, my lord. I promise you. Take him away.”

It was all too much. Sansa fell to the ground, staring at the blood. Arya came over and dipped her finger in it, then sucked off the crimson. “Mmm. That’s good.”

Bran said, “Glad to see you haven’t become any less disgusting.”

“Oh shut up.” She sat next to Sansa. “Pig’s blood. Here, taste.”

It was sweet and syrupy, with a metal tinge not unlike the blood pies Old Nan used to make. “But…he stabbed you,” she said to Jon.

He lifted his tunic. The wineskin was neatly wrapped to his body by two pieces of string. “It was Arya’s idea.”

“And the blade?”

“Also my idea. Thanks to you, sister, lifting his was a bit easier than I thought it’d be. He hid it quite well.”

Meera took the knife from Sansa and stabbed Bran with it. “Meera!”

She laughed. “Sorry.” 

“That hurt.”

She stabbed the palm of her hand. “Ow. Oh, that does hurt, doesn’t it?” She and Bran laughed.

Sansa took it back from her. The blade retracted, not completely, but enough. Enough that the tip could puncture a wineskin, if someone used a sufficient amount of force, but not enough to kill a person. Sansa rose and shouted. “Leave me.”

“Seven Hells, don’t tell me you’re mad,” Arya said. “That shit deserved what he got. He’s lucky I didn’t kill him.”

“Leave. Now.” The others made for the keep. “Not you, Jon.” Sansa crossed her arms and glared at him as he moved to stand before her.

“Sansa, I–”

“If I could kill you with this knife, right here, right now–”

“Sansa.”

“Why wouldn’t you tell me about this? Why? I’ve done everything for you and…” It almost would’ve been better if he had been stabbed. That would’ve hurt less.

“Because I knew you’d try and stop me,” Jon shouted. “Aye, you and I work well together, but you underestimate me all the time, Sansa.”

“What? And you don’t me?” She shouted back. She stepped closer to him. “This. Was. Cruel. I thought…I thought…”

“What?” Jon yelled. “You thought what?”

Why bother? He was so damned pigheaded. What was the point? Why did she even try?

Sansa growled at Jon and stalked back into the keep.

* * *

“Your Grace,” Tyrion said to Jon with a bow and a smile.

It was good to see him. “Lord Tyrion,” Jon said as he sat next to Sansa. The Great Hall was packed with all the Lords of the North, all the Lords, and Lady Mormont. The bald effeminate man standing next to Tyrion must have been Lord Varys. Sansa had told Jon a lot about him. Jon hoped he knew something about Prince Rhaegar, about his mother. He was looking forward to speaking with him. He did not know the two dark-skinned people, but the man looked to be a warrior and the woman was quite fetching. Jon said, “The scar on your face becomes you, Lord Tyrion. Adds some character to your armor.”

Tyrion recognized the reference to their first meeting. He smiled. “Thank you, Your Grace. It is good to see you too. Now, if you would be so kind as to come out to the courtyard to meet your betrothed.” Jon and Sansa and the other lords and ladies followed Tyrion out to the courtyard.

Arya heard the dragon first. She was so excited she could barely contain herself. When it landed the flap of its wings nearly knocked everyone over. It was almost as tall as Winterfell’s outer walls, and it took almost all the remaining space in the courtyard. The dragon roared, and everyone stepped back in fear, all but Jon, Ghost, and Sansa.

Sansa might not have the skills of a warrior, but she had a warrior’s heart, her father’s heart.

I will do you proud, Lord Eddard. Father. 

Perhaps it would’ve been good for Jon to have told her his plan. Something had held him back though. He knew not what, and he dare not think about it.

The dragon queen stepped down off her dragon, and Tyrion said, “Jon Snow, Sansa Stark, I present to you, Daenerys of the House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, Protector of the Realm, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar, Lady Regnant of the Six Kingdoms, the Unburnt, Mother of Dragons, and Breaker of Chains.”

Silver-blond hair and purple eyes. She was breathtaking. And there was something about her, something that drew Jon in an inexplicable way. He could not take his eyes off of her. “Your Grace.”

She approached him, stared into his eyes for a long time, studying them. “I recently had an interesting conversation with your Lord Howland. He spoke truths I was not ready to hear.”

Jon didn’t understand. “And you’re ready for them now, Your Grace?”

“Yes...yes, I believe I am.” She stepped in front of Sansa, took her hands. “I understand we have quite a bit in common, Lady Sansa.”

“So I’ve heard.”


	13. SANSA

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, folks. And to you new subs, welcome. I hope you all enjoyed your summer. As I said the other day, this is going to be another twelve-part run, with at least on part coming out every week. I figure I’ll probably finish in October/November. A couple people have asked/complained about the way I tag. I think it’s pretty obvious why I’m doing it if you’ve been following this story at all, so I’m not going to come out and explain my logic. If it bugs you, block me. For the rest of you, enjoy and thanks for reading.

“Don’t you see, Varys?” Littlefinger said, “They can’t kill me. Think, my friend. How would it look? Rhaeger’s son, the Stark daughter who betrayed her house by marrying a Lannister and then a Bolton, killing the first man outside of either family to learn the true parentage of the King of the North. They can’t kill me, Varys. The frail alliance they’ve put together would crumble. Look at them. They know it.”

Lord Varys turned to Sansa and Jon then looked back Littlefinger and smirked. “From where I’m standing, the Starks seem quite confident of their footing in this particular situation.”

It was strange to Sansa, seeing Littlefinger feebly pleading for his life like this. There was a time when the man’s mere presence, his confidence, his intellect, the air of danger about him, would’ve sent shots of heat through Sansa’s body so powerful she once feared she might die from them. Now Sansa felt the same way when she saw him as she did when she saw an ailing, ownerless dog.

This was who he was truly, she realized. The confidence, the intellect, the danger, they were part of a facade, very thinly veiled and barely covering this gangling creature underneath.

Jon stepped forward, peering at Littlefinger as if at any moment he might snap the man’s neck. “Have you nothing else to say for yourself, my lord? No defense of your actions?”

“Is there any that you would accept, Your Grace? My only defense is common sense. Be smart, Jon. I am of far better use to you alive than dead.”

Pathetic.

“I doubt that, Lord Baelish,” Sansa said. She turned to leave. As far as Sansa was concerned Jon needn’t bother beheading Littlefinger. She was perfectly content letting him rot away in this dreary cell atop Winterfell’s far tower. No windows, no lives nearby for him to manipulate and cast asunder.

Sansa was sure such a fate was worse than death for someone like Littlefinger.

As she walked down the steps and entered the bailey, Lord Varys and Jon caught up to her. Arya called out to Jon, and he excused himself so he could go greet her.

Lord Varys said, “Begging your pardon, Lady Sansa, but Queen Daenerys requested you come see her after we called upon Lord Baelish.”

Seven Hells, what did she want now? Sansa gave Lord Varys her most practiced smile, the one she’d perfected for Joffrey and Cersei and all the lords and ladies in King’s Landing. “Thank you, my lord. I will go to her at once. Excuse me.”

Sansa turned on her heel and headed for the Lord’s Chamber, the same Lord’s Chamber Jon had told the dragon queen was to remain unoccupied out of respect for Sansa’s parents.

Not but two days after that did Sansa catch that damned, bloody blond nymph and her lady-in-waiting Missandei walking about the room, covered in furs and talking about redecorating after she and Jon were wedded.

The very thought of her bedding Jon...

It was not that Sansa did not think the queen a good person. She was good-natured and congenial and beautiful. She got on with Arya and Bran and Meera like they’d known each other all their lives. She treated Jon the way he deserved to be treated. But Sansa could not help hating the wench with every breath she took.

Queen Daenerys and Missandei were giggling and saying something about Jon when Sansa entered the Lord’s Chamber. She wanted to vomit. “You wish to speak with me, Your Grace?”

The queen looked to her lady-in-waiting. “Leave us.”

Missandei curtsied. She was quite graceful, and intelligent. Under advisement from her ex-husband, Sansa had engaged Missandei in conversation during a feast in the Great Hall. It was a discussion for the ages. Missandei had seen much of the world, and her experiences with men were not unlike Sansa’s in many ways. It seemed, in Missandei, Sansa had found a kindred spirit. With so much turmoil in the world, she was thankful for that.

As Missandei closed the door, Queen Daenerys said, “You still don’t like me, do you?”

“No, Your Grace, I mean...I do...like you...you’re a nice person...I just...”

Queen Daenerys rose from her chair, the chair Sansa and her mother often sat in and knitted. She strode over to Sansa, took her hands. “It’s all right. You don’t have to.”

She was such a curious thing, small and delicate, yet ardent at the same time. Sansa could never quite gain her footing around the queen. It didn’t help matters that the only other woman who had ever made Sansa so uncomfortable had also been a queen.

Sansa sighed. “I am trying, Your Grace. With everything that’s happened to my family...and now Lord Baelish, it’s--”

“Difficult to accept new people coming into your and Jon’s lives,” Daenerys said. “I, of all people, understand.” She looked Sansa square in the eyes. “We will get there, you and I. We must, for Jon.”

“Yes.”

The door swung open. “Mhysa, Lady Sansa,” Grey Worm shouted. “Come!”

Maester Samwell was waiting in the hall for them.

“What is it?” Sansa asked him as they ran.

“Jon and Arya and the Greyjoys.”

The fight had ranged all over Yara and Theon’s quarters. Chairs were overturned. The small dining table was in several pieces strewn across the floor. There were bits of torn bed sheets, stained with spatters of blood, everywhere. When Sansa and the queen came in, Jon was choking Theon from behind, and Yara and Arya were circling each other with their knives. All four had bloodied noses or lips or bruised eyes or cuts on their torso or arms.

The queen and Samwell and Grey worm were taken aback, but Sansa was hardly surprised. Jon and Arya had wanted a go at Theon the moment they had laid eyes on him again. For days it was all they could talk about, that and Robb.

Queen Daenerys said, “Jon, let. Him. Go.”

And Sansa said, “Arya, stop it.”

Jon whispered to Theon, “This who you are now? A ball-less twat so weak your sister has to do your fighting for you?”

Theon said, “You’re one to talk!”

Jon threw him at Yara.

The Starks and the Greyjoys moved to opposing sides of the space, Sansa and the queen between them. Arya said, “This isn’t over.” And then she and Jon walked out wiping their faces.


	14. ARYA

Lord Tyrion got out of his chair and walked around the table to Bran, rested a hand on his shoulder. “We can’t go risking the lives of thousands of men to save a few hundred members of the Night’s Watch. It isn’t smart.”

Arya picked at a scab that had not yet healed from her and Jon’s fight with the Greyjoys. Yara knew her way around a blade. She was undisciplined and unwieldy, and Arya could definitely kill her, would definitely kill her, but Arya had to respect her fighting ability. Anything less would be unwise.

Arya leaned back in her chair, rested a foot on the table. Sansa gave her that look, that get yourself together and act like a lady look.

Fine.

Arya sat up.

She was not surprised the southroners would not heed Bran. What did they know of the Old Gods or the wall? They barely believed in their precious Seven and could hardly countenance listening to Jon and Sansa, let alone a crippled boy of seventeen who claimed to see the future and the past when he touched trees.

Bran would not be deterred. “You must go,” he said, “if you don’t--”

“You’re a good lad.” Lord Tyrion patted his head, smirked at Lord Varys and then at the queen. “It’s simply not possible.”

“It’s because of the horn, isn’t it?” Jon’s friend Maester Samwell chimed in. “You think the Night King might find the Horn of Joramun at Castle Black.”

“I know he will,” Bran said.

The men of the north grumbled and whispered to each other.

Lord Varys asked, “What is so special about this horn?”

“I read about it while I was at the Citadel,” Maester Samwell said. “ It can bring down what’s left of the wall.”

“A horn?” Daenerys said. 

“It’s true, Your Grace,” the young maester said. “I’ve held it in my hands. I didn’t know what it was at the time, but--”

“And where did you find it?” Lord Tyrion asked.

“At the Fist of the First Men, my lord, buried in the snow, a couple of feet down, with a cloak of the Night’s Watch and some dragonglass.”

“You found the one thing that can destroy an eight-thousand-year-old, seven-hundred-foot-tall, hundred-league-long wall casually buried a few feet into the ground with some obsidian and a coat?”

The laughter and snickering was mild, considering. Nevertheless, the Starks and the Northern lords had little patience for Lord Tyrion’s mockery of their beliefs.

Tormund stood up at the far end of the table. He had only arrived at Winterfell that morning after riding all night from The Last Hearth. With all the new flowery faces from the south about, Arya was glad to see him, so was Jon. “If these fairies are too afraid to go, I will lead a small force myself and get the horn and Edd and the other crows.”

“We will lead it, Tormund,” Jon said. “Together.”

Tormund smiled and nodded approvingly. “Yes...Your Grace.”

Tormund never called him that. He might as well have kissed Jon.

Arya and Meera and Bran and Sansa's chests swelled. They sat up straighter in their chairs. Did those southron shits hear that? That was their brother, The King in the North, the dragon raised by wolves, earning the respect of the freefolk and the northern lords while they cowered in fear. Father would have been proud. Lords Glover, Cerwyn, Manderly, and Lady Mormont certainly were as they sat on the edges of the Starks.

Queen Daenerys glared at Jon. “You can’t be serious.”

Jon gave the queen one of those warm, sad smiles Arya had never seen on another man. “What kind of king would I be if I was not willing to sacrifice my life for those who’ve sworn to sacrifice theirs for me?”

The queen melted at his words. She hid her emotions well, but Arya could see the thaw in her eyes.

Lord Tyrion said, “That’s very noble of you, Your Grace, but I must insist that you re--”

“I’m going, Tyrion.”

Lords Tyrion and Varys and the queen looked to Sansa, but Arya’s sister remained silent.

“That’s all for now,” Jon said. “We’ll meet again in a few hours to discuss the logistics of relocating more of the smallfolk further south. Thank you, my lords.”

The Great Hall began emptying out. Arya glanced over at Queen Daenerys and Jon. To someone else it might’ve just looked like whispering, but Arya knew her brother almost as well as she knew herself. Jon was exacerbated by whatever Queen Daenerys was saying.

“Best not got involved, my lady,” Ser Davos said. "Come on, let’s go.” But Arya walked the other way, toward Jon and the queen. Behind her she heard Ser Davos say, “Right, it’s your funeral.”

Jon saw Arya approaching out of the corner of his eye. He was so distressed. What had they been talking about? Jon ended whatever conversation he and the queen were having abruptly then stalked off, leaving the queen with nowhere to direct her frustration. That is, not until, she saw Arya coming toward her. “Your brother is the most stubborn fool I’ve ever met. This is real. He’s not playing war. Kings don’t do what he’s about to. They simply don’t. Does he realize how dangerous going north is?”

“He knows more about it than any of us,” Arya said. “I understand that you’re worried, but my father did not raise cowards.” She turned to watch Sansa walk out alone, her face grim. “Look at my sister, Your Grace. Do you think she wants to let Jon go with Tormund to Castle Black?”

Daenerys studied Sansa. “Why doesn’t she say anything then?”

“Because she knows he’ll come back. He promises her every time. Also if my brother Bran believes a thing must be done, then it must be done.”

“You really believe your brother can see the future?”

“And the past.”

That peaked the queen’s interest. She tucked her arm in Arya’s. “Then let us go and have him see something for me.”

This was the open-mindedness that set the queen apart from the rest of her court, that had allowed Arya to accept her as Jon’s betrothed. “What is it you would have him see?”

“How my mother and my brother and my sister died.”


	15. DAENERYS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been busy, but I have a lull. Gonna put up new content for this story every day for the rest of this week. Thanks for your patience, and thanks for reading.

Dany did not ask Bran to show her how her brother Rhaegar had died because she did not know the truth. She asked because Viserys had told her a thousand times how Robert the Usurper had bested their brother upon the battlefield at the Trident, how dishonorably Robert had fought, using his men to tire Rhaegar, before stepping in to issue the killing blow. Viserys was always so animated when he shared the tale, and he told it the same way every time, with the same flare and rage.

If the Starks were playing some trick of the ilk Mirri Maz Duur had, using magic to achieve their own ends, Dany would know before her journey into the ethereal with Jon’s brother was over.

“Arya,” Bran said, “I’m not sure this is a good idea. I’ve never brought anyone in with me before.”

“Please, Bran,” Dany said.

“What’s the worst that could happen?” Arya asked. She and Jon...were there ever two people who were more alike? Perhaps Rhaegar had had two children, and Ned Stark had been hiding them both.

“She could die,” Meera said.

“Well, I’d rather not do that,” Dany said.

“Then we shouldn’t try this,” Bran said. Whether his reluctance was borne of genuine concern or fear of being found out, Jon’s brother would need a push.

“Come on. We’re practically family now.” Dany tucked her arm in Bran’s. “Would you deny your new sister?” Dany’s charms seemed to work on all the Starks, all but Sansa. Dany could not blame her though for her contempt. Had their roles been reversed, Dany likely would have felt the same.

Bran stared at Dany. “All right, but if you start to feel strange, you have to tell me. We’ll leave at once.”

Could such a boy be capable of so many incredible lies? Dany did not think so, but she must be sure, for herself and Jon’s sake.

They went to the Godswood. Bran instructed Dany to sit beside him underneath the heart tree. He took his hand in hers, then placed his other hand on the tree.

Dany slid down a tunnel of white. She was drowning. She could not breath. Her lungs filled with water. And then...she was on a battlefield, standing next to Bran. He was a tall, much taller than Jon. Men threw themselves at one another across a river that flowed crimson from all the blood. There was a time when Dany would not have been to listen to so many screams of sheer pain, but it had long since past. 

“Are we...?”

“Yes,” Bran said.

Two knights met at the river’s edge. One was almost a foot taller than any other man on the field and wielded a warhammer. A pair of black antlers shot out from his helm. The other man was lithe and in black armor, a dragon made of rubies on the breastplate.

“Rhaegar,” Dany whispered.

Her beautiful brother faired well at first. He was fast and handled his sword with a dexterity unlike anything Dany had ever seen before. He inflicted several glancing blows to the taller man’s breastplate. Robert the Usurper stumpled into the ford. Rhaegar gave chase. It was just as Viserys had described so many times. As Rhaegar stood over the Usurper, he brought his sword down upon him. Dany knew what was going to happen next, but no man came to stop the blade. The Usurper himself raised his warhammer in time to deflect the blow.

He rose. “Where is my Lady Lyanna?”

“Lyanna is not yours, my lord,” Rhaegar said. “Nor will she ever be.”

“Eerrryyyyaaaawww!”

Rhaegar struggled against the Usurper’s warhammer and rage. No bannerman came to the usurper’s aid. Her brother did not face multiple men in addition to Robert. Rhaeger was simply not strong enough to defeat the man. As they grew tired, Robert made an all encompassing dash toward Dany’s brother and knocked him on his back and into the river. While Rhaegar struggled to his feet, Robert the Usurper struck him in the breastplate, right in the middle of that red rubied dragon, with a blow from his warhammer that would’ve killed any man. The rubies fell like rain into the water.

Robert moved to stand over Rhaegar.

“No!” Dany shouted.

Dany slid down the tunnel of white again. She drowned. Her lungs filled with water. And then...she was back in Winterfell, in the Godswood, underneath the heart tree with Bran. Arya and Meera were talking over by the pond.

Dany turned to Bran. “What is this sorcery you’ve shown me? That’s not what happened.”

“I assure,” Bran said softly. “It is.”

“No...my brother Viserys told me...he told me that--”

“History is merely a story, Your Grace, told in ways that serve the agenda of the storyteller.”

“And what’s your agenda?”

“Your Grace?”

“You and your family? What are you all playing at?”

“Nothing.”

Meera came over. “Everything all right?”

Dany stood up and stalked out of the Godswood.


	16. JON

Winterfell was not yet returned to its former glory, but Jon and Sansa had made significant strides to getting it there. And with Bran and his knowledge of the castle now around, the pace of construction had increased threefold. The natural hot springs beneath the castle were flowing again, just in time for winter. Bran had been rather adamant about getting them going. Something about their connection to the crypt and the walkers and the Kings of Winter. He and Meera knew more about The Long Night than they were letting on. Jon, Sansa, and Arya could tell, but they agreed to let him keep his secrets for now.

Besides, Jon had more pressing issues to attend to, like making preparations for the rescue mission to Castle Black. Tormund had rounded up 130 wildlings and former Umber vassals for the cause. Jon, Cley Cerwyn, and Robett Glover entertained the entreaties of some seventy volunteers, mostly from second and third sons of lower houses looking to make names for themselves, to fill out the remainder of the requisite 200 men needed.

After that there was the matter of provisioning to see to. Sam and the other maesters suggested that each man only be outfitted with a courser or rounsey, one single-handed weapon, and a quiver of arrows and a bow. Basically the bare essentials to survive and nothing more. For the wildlings this was no problem. It was how they had lived for centuries. Among the young lords though, the rationing had caused a bit of a stir. There was even talk that it was part of a conspiracy to weaken the lower houses by thinning their numbers so that they might become more amenable to the orders of their lieges in the future.

After discussing the situation with Sansa, Jon had taken it upon himself to put forth some show of solidarity, something to convince these brave men he had no intention of losing any of them if he could help it.

You’ll have to be firm and direct with her, Sansa had said. Make her understand what’s at stake. She will not agree to do it just because you ask.

Jon knew that. 

He didn’t know how many times he’d practiced his speech before he found Daenerys outside in the courtyard talking to Lords Tyrion and Varys, the masons restoring the Library Tower nearby. 

“Your Grace,” Jon said as he approached the three of them. Daenerys did not look it, but Jon could tell she was not happy. He could almost feel her malcontent as she looked upon him. “My lords, if you two would excuse us, I would speak with the queen alone.”

Tyrion and Varys looked to Daenerys as if that might not be such a good idea. “It’s fine,” she told them.  
The men headed for the Broken Tower. They spent an awful lot of time there now, speaking with Lord Baelish.

Jon needed to behead that man soon.

“What do you need, my love?” Daenerys said.

Okay, steady. “Rhaegal,” Jon said. “The men going north need something to improve their morale, something that will make them better fighters, a symbol of my dedication to their returning alive.” It wasn't exactly what he'd practiced, but Jon liked how it sounded.

“And you think you on the back of a dragon will do the trick?” Daenerys spit the words out more like an accusation than a question.

Jon remained calm. “I do.”

Daenerys spun on her heels and started across the courtyard, and Jon followed. “I still don’t understand why you’re doing this.”

“We can’t just leave them all up there to die.”

“Did they not swear an oath to do just that?”

“This is about more than that and you know it. Bran says--”

“Your brother says many things, sees many things. He is no doubt powerful. But there’s no way to know which parts of his visions are real and which parts are the fantasies of a boy.” Daenerys stopped and faced Jon. “Have you considered the possibility that the Starks are trying to get you killed? Has that notion ever even entered your mind?”

“Dany!”

“They treated you like filth for years, spat on you, finally discarded you when it suited them.”

What had come over Daenerys? She did not sound like herself. “I volunteered for the Night’s Watch,” Jon said. “You can’t hold that against Bran and Sansa and Arya. They were children when I left. And I forgave Lady Catelyn and Lord Eddard for their misgivings long ago.”

“A dragon does not forgive, my love. We punish.”

But Jon wasn’t a dragon. He was a wolf, the white wolf, and he didn’t have time for this argument. “Look, are you going to lend me Rhaegal or not?”

“Not,” Daenerys said. “I will not help you commit suicide.” She made for the Great Keep.


	17. TYRION

Tyrion found Daenerys alone in her chambers. “Mind if I join you?” He received no response. “I’ll take that as a yes.” He sat in the chair across from her. She was in pain, despondent in a way Tyrion had only seen her once before. “What happened when you went with Lady Arya to the Godswood?” The question took her by surprise. “I saw you two leave after the moot.”

Daenerys moved from her chair to the window. “She took me to see Bran. He showed me...how much do you know about my brother Viserys?”

This was the first time Tyrion had ever heard Daenerys speak his name. “Only what I heard from Ser Jorah during our brief time together, and from those few Dothraki that have been with you since the beginning. By most accounts, he was a bit too much like your father--cruel, to you, to everyone, obsessed with power. Why do you ask?”

“There was only one thing I never doubted about him.”

“And what was that?”

She rung her hands. The girl moved as if a hole had been carved through her center. "I was pregnant once. Did you know that?” Tyrion did not. “It was with my first husband. He and the baby were killed by a witch.”

Where was this going? “Bran Stark is many things, but an evil witch....”

She snickered. “You don’t know what he can do.”

“No, but I knew his mother. Intimate treachery is not something Catelyn Stark instilled in her children.”

“And what about Ned Stark?” That was an argument Tyrion could not win, even if he made valid point after valid point. Daenerys paused. “They love Jon, don’t they, the Starks? You don’t think...now that they know he’s my kin...that because Lord Eddard sacrificed so much, died for his sake...”

Finally, Tyrion understood. He came over and took Daenerys’s hand. “Blood or no, Jon will always be their brother. His bond with the Starks has only been strengthened by the knowledge of his true parentage.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“I do.”

“He sent you here to speak with me, didn’t he?” Daenerys asked. The look in her eyes...Tyrion had never seen Daenerys with the look of love before. It suited her. Jon Snow was a lucky man. If he ever hurt Daenerys, there would be no place in the Seven Kingdoms Tyrion would not find him. And Gods help him when Tyrion did. 

“Uh...I might’ve run into the White Wolf in passing recently. But that is not why I came here. I bring news. It’s about Lord Baelish.” Daenerys’s eyes went icy. “Varys and I would speak with you and Lady Sansa about it.”

“What about Jon?”

“I think it best we leave him out of this discussion. For now. Besides, he needs to outfit Rhaegal for travel, does he not?”

Daenerys smiled.


	18. DAVOS

Much to Davos's surprise, the dragon remained docile as a lamb as Jon outfitted it with his gear. Jon's kingsguard looked on in awe as well, as did some of the small folk from Winter town who had come to watch. All were sure to keep their distance. The horses in the stables were so unsettled by the dragon's presence that Jon had had to go about his preparations outside the safety of the castle walls. One could hardly blame the animals for their fear.

The creature's predatory bronze eyes constantly tracked its surroundings, making note of everything and everyone as if cataloging what qualified as friend, foe, or prey. Lady Arya had told Davos that dragons were sentient, not mere beasts but almost people, with deep connections to their riders. Whomever Jon considers a friend, she had said, Rhaegal will as well. Whomever he considers an enemy, Gods be with them.

Each of the dragon's green and bronze scales were as large as Davos's head. Each tooth was as long as a sword. Coupled with Jon and Ghost, the trio were likely as formidable as a full combat brigade. The dragon and the wolf unbeatable together. Hmm. Something of a metaphor there.

"Davos," Jon said as he strapped a quiver of arrows to the dragon's back. "Can you hand me that satchel there? It's got my fletching jig in it."

"Muhh..."

"If Rhaegal were going to eat you, he'd already have bloody done it."

"Yes, Your Grace."

The dragon swung its long neck and head to watch as Davos gingerly walked over to the pack. He brought it over to Jon, looked up to see...was that thing smiling at him? The creature shook out its neck like a wet dog trying to get dry.

"Eh, eh," Jon shouted. "How am I supposed to get this done if you keep stirring about like that?"

The dragon let out a brief roar, and Davos skittered back to a safe distance, as did Jon's kingsguard and the small folk.

"Uh, begging your pardon," Davos said. "I know we've got more pressing things to worry about, but how is that you're able to be around that...thing...so comfortably?" The damnable beast grinned again at that.

Jon stopped what he was doing and walked over. "What are you asking?"

Davos wasn't so much asking as he was implying. He didn't know the details, and he didn't really care to. "There's only one family in the history of Westeros that has ever been able to ride dragons."

"That's true."

"But I thought..."

"So did I," Jon said.

"If the lords of the north find out--"

"They won't," Jon insisted. He got close to Davos and whispered, "Because you're going to come up with a suitable alternative explanation."

"Aye, guess I'm going to have to if I want to keep my head."

Davos saw Lady Brienne approaching, carefully, her eyes fixed on the dragon the way a deer keeps track of a nearby bear. "King Jon."

Jon whinced. "Please don't call me that. What is it, Brienne?"

"Did you know that the queen has a red woman among her party?"

What? Jon spun around and faced Lady Brienne. "I did not." He glanced back at Davos. No words were exchanged, but they both understood. "Is it Melisandre?" Davos's hand instinctively sprang to the hilt of his sword at the sound of her name.

"No, Your Grace."

Another red bitch! Davos would kill her, before she enchanted anymore people with her lies. He had to. "Where is she?" Davos's fingers gripped his sword so tight, he thought he might break his hand.

"Davos, wait," Jon said.

"Wait? Wait for what? You know what she's capable of, what these women can get people to...do."

"I know. But if this is true, we have to bring our concerns to the queen first." Jon was right of course. It was smarter to at least notify Queen Daenerys before killing her guest. Too bad the good King of the North and his sister hadn't remembered that before trying to slit the Greyjoys' throats. Jon asked Lady Brienne, "Where did you see this red woman? She hasn't been at court."

"Podrick saw her preaching on the outskirts of the Wolfswood not two days ago, on his way back from Torrhen's Square."

"You see," Davos shouted. "She's spewing her lies!" This could not stand. "Your Grace-"

"I know," Jon said. "Fetch me Lords Tyrion and Varys."


	19. SANSA

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thought I forgot about y'all, didn’t you? Nope. Just been busy. Going to try and post the rest of this week, through Saturday. Wish me luck!

Sansa could not bring herself to believe what she was hearing, could not comprehend how Tyrion, who had been so kind to her in King’s Landing, so understanding of her plight, could possibly entertain the notion, especially considering the source of the offer.

“Marry Sweetrobin?” Sansa’s stomach twisted and turned upon itself.

“And inherit Harrenhall upon Littlefinger’s death, as well as Highgarden, and all the wealth and power of House Tyrell when I pass, my dear,” Lady Olenna said.

“As well as that of the Riverlands,” Uncle Edmure added.

“What about your son, Uncle?”

Edmure lowered his head. “He will serve as your warden.” The disappointment in his voice rubbed against Sansa like shards of hot, pointy glass.

“Think of it, beloved,” Petyr said. He pressed his face against the bars of the cell. “House Stark stronger than ever. You at its head, the most powerful person in Westeros.”

“Begging your pardon, Lord Baelish, but Jon Snow is the head of House Stark, is he not?” Queen Daenerys said.

“Of course, Your Grace, of course. My apologies.” Petyr bowed to her. “I misspoke.”

“Well, what say you, girl?” Lady Olenna chirped.

What did Sansa say? She was at a loss. Sansa looked to Tyrion, but he could not bring himself to meet her eyes, would not. What was Petyr playing at? How had he brokered this pact? With Margaery and Loras gone, Lady Olenna had no future. House Tyrell would die. But to bequeath everything to Sansa? And Uncle Edmure...how could he give away her cousin’s birthright so easily? And how would the boy not grow up to resent Sansa for taking what was rightfully his? All this on condition that Sansa marry a creature such as Sweetrobin?

It seemed Sansa's womb and name still remained more valuable than her spirit or wit. To most anyway. She needed to talk to Jon. “If I could have some time to--”

“I am sorry, my Lady,” Lord Varys said. “But we must have your answer now. Your brother intends to behead our good Lord Baelish on the morrow before he leaves for Castle Black.”

“So?”

“So,” Tyrion said, finally getting involved. “If you do not agree before then,” he faced the cell and its inhabitant, “our dear, good-hearted friend here, through various machinations of which neither I nor Varys are able to discern, intends to make sure the lords of the North and the Vale know the truth about Jon.”

“The way you speak of me, Lord Tyrion,” Petyr said smiling. “I didn’t know you cared so.”

“Trust me, I don’t. But I find it best not to insult a man when he’s got the power to cut off your manhood. Isn’t that so, Varys?”

If word got out that Jon was Rhaegar’s son, the alliance he’d built between the North and the Vale certainly would collapse and the war with the Other’s would be lost. And yet, maintaining the lie meant Sansa subjecting herself to the whims of men once more, something she swore she would never allow to happen to her again.

Queen Daenerys took Sansa’s hand. “We are asking more of you than any person should ask of another.” Surely she’d heard from Missandei what Sansa had...experienced. For the first time, Sansa felt a connection to the tiny, purple-eyed dragon. She knew. Sansa could see it in her eyes. The queen knew Sansa’s pains, and not just from being told. The queen had been through it herself in some manner. How Sansa now wished they could speak of it alone.

“Do you believe him?” Sansa glanced at Petyr with a look that could have cut him in two. At some point, Ghost had entered the broken tower and climbed the steps leading to Petyr’s cell. He growled at the door. “Ghost? What are you doing here?”

Ser Davos and Brienne entered the room. “Your Grace. My lady,” Brienne said. She and Davos bowed. “Lords Tyrion and Varys, King Jon would have a word with you.”

“Can’t it wait?” Queen Daenerys asked.

“Would that it could, Your Grace,” Davos said.


	20. DAENERYS

Jon had once told Dany that his direwolf was part of him, an extension of himself, his personality, his core. When Jon had died, there was nothing, but he suspected a sliver of him had not disappeared into the void. Somehow it had latched onto the white, horse-sized creature now before Dany, Sansa, and Lady Olenna.

Jon had not been able to explain it, but he knew he had felt it. Having had her own experiences that she could not quite comprehend, Dany believed him. 

Varys and Tyrion left with Ser Davos and Lady Brienne, and Dany, Sansa, and Lady Olenna found themselves alone in the broken tower with Lord Baelish. 

Ghost moved between the women and the cell door, laying down facing it, not resting but on watch for anything out of the ordinary, any sudden movement from Baelish. The women watched the direwolf together for a moment, then Sansa came over and stroked the animal’s head.

“Do you have any idea what Jon wants with Varys and Tyrion?” Dany said.

“I don’t,” Sansa answered, still petting Ghost. “He doesn’t speak to me about every little thing.”

“Doesn’t he?”

Lady Olenna sucked her teeth. “I’ll stop this before it starts. There’s nothing uglier than two women fighting, especially over a man.” Sansa blanched. “Oh, come off it, girl. He’s no more your brother than I am your father. You love him. We all know it.” She pointed at Lord Baelish. “This one best of all. You’re a lecherous bastard if ever I’ve met one, Lord Baelish.”

Baelish said, “As Lady Sansa’s uncle-”

“Spare me your forked tongue,” Lady Olenna snapped. “I’ve heard hiss enough for two lifetimes.” She headed down the steps without so much as a by your leave.

Dany stared at Sansa. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

“Good. I wasn’t going to.”

You had to admire her spirit. Dany could understand why Missandei had taken such a liking to Sansa, and why Jon so valued her counsel. Under different circumstances, Sansa Stark would be more than an inlaw or an ally. She’d be a friend. “If I had known what Varys and Tyrion intended to ask of you up here, I would have stopped it.” Sansa didn’t move. Her eyes were as fixed on Dany as Ghosts were on Baelish. Dany supposed she deserved that. If their roles were reversed, she would’ve responded the same way. “My first marriage was arranged,” Dany said. “My brother sold me to a Dothraki. In exchange for his army. I was thirteen.”

There. The tension in Sansa’s body began to subside. “What happened?”

“He died.” For a moment, Dany saw her beloved Drogo, burning upon the pyre. We will see each other again, Shekh Ma Shieraki Anni.

“You must’ve been glad.”

Dany remembered the stories her court had told her about Sansa’s time in King’s Landing, recalled what Missandei had shared about the late Ramsay Bolton. Of course Sansa loved Jon after going through all of that. “I loved Khal Drogo, not at first, but over time--”

“I could never love Sweetrobin.”

“Are you certain?”

“Quite.”

“Then it sounds like you’ve made up your mind.”

Sansa looked at her, astonished. “ And you don’t intend to try and change it, do you?”

Dany smiled. “A woman’s prerogative is her own business.”

Ghost rose to his feet and growled. “Such kinship.” Lord Baelish gripped the bars of the cell and put his face to them again. “Why you two are already acting like sisterwives. Rhaenys and Visenya reborn.” Dany had had just about enough of him. If Jon weren’t already going to behead him on the morrow, she would have ordered Grey Worm to do it. “Why do you two think your beloved Jon’s kept me alive all this time?”

Sansa and Ghost moved nearer to the cell.

Baelish grinned. “That day in the Godswood. Do you know what Jon and I were fighting about? You, beloved. I told him my intention to wed you myself or to your cousin Robin. And when he said he would never let that happen, I politely reminded him about the sensitive information I am privy to.”

Dany didn’t have to see Sansa’s face to know what she was feeling. “He’s lying.”

Baelish shook his head. He was like a child with a new toy. Sansa hung on his every word. “Jon’s been trying to find my co-conspirators for some time now. Seen much of Arya lately?”

Except for small council meetings and the like, she had been missing quite a bit. Dany had assumed she was off training in whatever dark arts she knew.

Sansa said, “So Tyrion and Varys...”

“Have grown impatient with the investigation, I suspect,” Baelish said. “Jon’s clever, just not as clever as me. And he knows it. He can’t leave for Castle Black with me alive. No telling what manner of trouble I’ll get up to in his absence.”

Why had Tyrion and Varys not come to Dany with this. More importantly, why hadn’t Jon? Most importantly, why was Petyr Baelish saying all of this now? His battle of wits with Jon had been going on for weeks.

Sansa faced Dany. “It’s all probably true. But he’s saying it to put us,” she flipped between pointing at Dany and herself, “at odds.”

A sound strategy. But that competition would have to come another day. “The focus has to remain on finding whomever’s helping him,” Dany said.

“We need to find Arya.”

“And Jon?” At that moment Dany very much wanted to give him a piece of her mind.

Sansa said, “Jon has his secrets. Let us keep ours.”


	21. JON

Jon finished outfitting Rhaegal as he spoke to Tyrion and Varys. "Either you send the red woman south, my lords, or I will let Ser Davos behead her."

Varys said, "I think I'd rather like to see that. Show me your sword, Ser Davos."

“Please, Davos, I beg you,” Tyrion said. “Keep your weapon where it is. Your Grace, I don’t understand-”

“That’s right,” Jon said. He faced them. “You don’t.” Jon recalled being brought back. Seeing Melisandre. The disorientation, the pain of the betrayal, the realization that he wasn’t supposed to be alive. That sense of otherness had never left him.

This was more than a rescue mission to Castle Black for him. It was also a test. In all the combat he had seen since coming back, Jon had had a ferocity that had been absent in him before he'd died. Did he have a soul anymore? Bran had said the Night King would be there when Jon and Tormund arrived. Could he take hold of Jon? There was only one way to find out.

Tyrion said, “Keeping the favor of the small folk is not just about what you do for them. How they think-”

“The Northerners worships the Old Gods, my lord,” Brienne added.

“Always have," Davos said.

If Jon did fall under the control of the Night King, he was glad she and Davos would be here to see after the Starks.

Speaking of which. Meera was approaching. By his measure, she was a Stark in all but name. And hopefully Bran would rectify that soon. After all Jon’s brother had been through, the responsibility now upon his shoulders, Bran deserved some semblance of happiness.

Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn no doubt would’ve approved of the match. If Jon managed to come back alive, he would issue a formal request to Lord Howland after his return.

“Begging your pardon, my lords,” Meera said. She skittered passed them up to Jon, froze in place once she noticed Rhaegal grinning at her.

“What is it?” Jon said.

“They know,” Meera said.

“Who knows?”

“Sansa and the queen. They know. They’re looking for Arya now.”

Fucking Baelish. It had to have been. Curse that man. But when? And how much of it had he tempered and twisted to his own ends, which no doubt were as much dissension and chaos as he could cause before losing his head. “My lords,” Jon said to Tyrion and Varys. “I saw you came from the broken tower. Were the queen and Lady Sansa there with you?”

Varys and Tyrion exchanged a look.

Damn them both. “What did you do? I told you I would handle it.”

“Jon, we’ve given you weeks. We could not afford to wait any longer, not with you about to go on this expedition to the Wall. I don’t like it anymore than you do.”

Meera shouted, “You have no idea what you’ve done. You-you’ve...” She was almost crying. Jon rested a hand on her shoulder. Meera had the heart of a wolf, and the passion. Yes, Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn definitely would’ve approved. 

Tyrion did not know what to make of her and Jon. “Come, Varys. Let us away to find our sultry, pious friend, so that we can banish her.”

Jon patted Rhaegal. “We’re done. The rest we’ll outfit on the morrow.” The dragon chirped and hissed. “Don’t be like that. Besides, you’ve only got to wear it for one night. Now go on. Off with you.”

Rhaegal beat his massive wings, and waves formed in the grass. The swells rippled outward as if Rhaegal were a rock and the earth a pond. He lifted off and flew west toward the Wolfswood.

_If I find her...?_

_Do what you will. What can they say?_

_As you wish. Davos will be pleased, will he not?_

_I suspect so. Good hunting._

Jon made for the east gate, Meera in tow. “Where’d you leave Bran?”

"In the crypts."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should be able to crank out one more chapter today. Late night. Stay tuned. BTW, you guys are asking great questions. Stick around, and you'll get answers.


	22. BRAN/JON

Bran and Meera had been sitting beneath his father’s likeness, their bodies so close he scarcely knew where his began and hers ended, when Sansa and Queen Daenerys had entered the crypt.

“Have either of you seen Arya?” Sansa asked.

“Not down here,” Bran said. He loved his sister, but in that moment, if he could’ve throttled her, he would’ve. 

Meera pulled away. “Why do you ask?”

Queen Daenerys said, “It seems Jon has been keeping secrets.”

No.

“Secrets?” Bran said. He felt Meera’s hand slide into his and squeeze. “About what?” Perhaps they hadn’t learned everything. As a brother, Bran held out the hope that there was still time, though as Greenseer he knew that was a futile notion. Prophecy could be forestalled but never cheated.

Sansa said, “Littlefinger has a plot in place to reveal that Jon is Rhaegar’s son unless I agree to marry Sweetrobin. Arya is helping Jon find out who Littlefinger’s co-conspirators are.”

The scales of Fate always return to balance. The first weight had been dropped. There was no stopping it now.

Meera said, “We haven’t seen Arya since we broke fast. Have you tried the rookery? She's been spending a great deal of time with Maester Samwell of late.”

Sansa eyes came alive and she sucked her teeth. “Of course.” She and Daenerys headed back upstairs. Sansa turned around, smiled at Bran, and said playfully, “Bye, little brother.”

Under other circumstances Bran might have found the taunting endearing, but his heart sank at her words. Meera squeezed his hand again. “Goodbye,” Bran said.

* * *  
JON

“That’s what happened, “ Bran said.

Jon stroked his beard. Damn Baelish and his bloody obsession with vengeance. At one point Jon had considered telling him everything. If Baelish had truly loved Sansa, as he claimed, surely, he would have seen the folly in his scheming, that what he had planned to hurt Jon with would instead hurt his “beloved” far, far more than he had ever intended, and thus, he would reconsider his final move in the Great Game. But that would’ve only worked if Baelish had loved Sansa, not seen her like a trophy to be won.

Daenerys, Jon had planned to tell directly, which even Bran had thought a good idea, until she’d had her first experience with Greenseeing. After that, Jon could no longer safely say how she would respond to hearing about something that affected her personally. What if she sought counsel from Tyrion or Varys about it? Then inadvertently one or all of them set everything into motion. 

It was hard, but Jon had to keep both at arm’s length, in so much as he could. Were it not for Arya, the whole thing likely would have driven him mad. “Is there no way to stop it now?” he asked Bran.

“You know there isn’t.”

“Will you at least tell me which one is going to die?”

Jon could see the pain in his brother’s eyes the question drew out. Meera and Arya had tried to coax the answer out of him too, many times, to no avail.

“I’m sorry,” Bran said.

“Sorry? You’re sorry? Is that all you have to fucking say to me?”

“It’s not his fault,” Meera shouted. She stepped between them.

Gods, what did she think he was going to do? He could never forgive himself if he harmed a Stark. Never. Would kill anyone who dared try. He felt even more protective of Dany now that she was in his life.

“I told you before that this wouldn’t work. Fate cannot be denied,” Bran said. “At least, we had a little more time with them both, like you wanted.”

“Aye! And what good has that done?”

Jon stalked out of the crypt, in search of Sansa and Dany. They might as well both learn it all now.


	23. ARYA

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting near the end here, folks. I can definitely write more chapters, but I'm not entirely sure anybody wants that. Sound off in the comments please. Let me know if you're sick of my shit.

Nymeria whimpered as she approached Little Sam's crib. She flitted her tongue across the baby's face as if cleaning the child, spawning bubbles of laughter with every touch of her tongue.

“Nymeria, no! Get away from there,” Sam said. “He’s not your babe. He’s mine.” Sam shooed the she-wolf away from the crib with the ease a kennel master might a hound.

Years of being around Ghost had obviously left Sam without even the tiniest bit of fear of direwolves or what they were capable of. He must’ve been a true friend then to Jon. For anyone less than that would’ve at least lost a finger by now.  
Sam unfurled the blanket that had been curled around the babe then picked him up and sniffed the baby’s crotch twice. “Oh, time for a change I think.” He held Little Sam high above his head, as if presenting to him the Gods. “Are you ready for me to change you, little man? Are you ready for me to change you?”

Little Sam giggled.

It was a peculiar sight, seeing a maester caring for a babe. But Arya was glad to witness it. She came over and stood next to Sam as he unwrapped the dirty cloth around Little Sam and replaced it with a fresh white one. "What happened to his mother?" she said.

Sam stopped what he was doing and started to cry. “She...died...when Oldtown was sacked.” Tales of how horrible the siege had been had made their way north long before Queen Daenerys and her party had arrived. Euron Greyjoy had strangled the city, burned the Citadel to the ground. The Targaryen forces and those of the Lannisters had briefly united to defeat him, though not before Euron’s men had managed to rape and murder countless...

Gods.

Arya rested a hand on Sam’s back. “I’m sorry.”

“I tried to protect her. I’d done it before.” Sam forced a smirk. His face was like glass, ready to shatter at any moment. “From a whitewalker...a Thenn once too. But I couldn’t that time...save her from...” he wiped at his eyes. “Anyway, she died. Now I’m all Little Sam has.” Sam finished swaddling the babe then craddled him.

Nymeria came over and nuzzled Sam’s side as Arya leaned over his shoulder and pinched Little Sam’s cheek. “You’re very lucky to have this one watching over you, little one. Do you know that?”

Little Sam giggled again. Sam put him back in his crib. Nymeria ran to the door.

Arya knew it was Sansa and Queen Daenerys before they even entered the maester’s chambers. She crossed her arms as they came in.

Nymeria went to lick Sansa’s hand, and the queen stepped back.

“Are you here for me or the maester?” Arya said.

“You,” Sansa said vigorously petting her sister’s wolf. Nymeria put her paw on Sansa’s shoulder. “Come with us.”

Arya said goodbye to Sam and Little Sam then followed her sister and the queen out of the maester’s quarters into the courtyard. She was glad that the two of them had finally made peace with one another. Jon had not said anything directly, but the wedge between Sansa and the queen had only exacerbated his concerns about Bran’s prophecy.

Was Sansa going to kill Daenerys? Was Daenerys going to kill Sansa?

Every new display of tension between the two sent Jon into dayslong fits of worry. No doubt he would be relieved when he learned that their relationship had taken a turn for the better. 

“How close are you to finding Lord Baelish’s allies among us?” Queen Daenerys asked. 

“How did you...? You mustn’t ask me about this, Your Grace. For both your sakes, leaves this to Jon and me.”

Sansa stepped forward. “I know how special you are to each other, but this is the second time you two have kept secrets.”

Arya shouted, “Aye! And we do it for your own bloody good, you idiot.”

“Oh, do you?”

“Yes! You have no idea what a shitstorm you’re about to--”

“It’s all right, Arya,” Jon said. His face was flush as he strode toward the three of them, as if he’d just had a row with someone. “It’s already too late.”

“But Bran--”

“I’ve just finished speaking with him. It’s too late.”

The queen said, “Too late for what?”


	24. DAENERYS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the silence. I knew this scene was going to be one of the ones that was going to give me the most trouble as soon as I came up with this story. Apologies ahead of time if you end up thinking it sucks.

Dany had heard the words many times, even said them to a foe or two, had them earnestly said to her as well. Never before had it been like this though. Never before had these three little words made her feel so helpless.

Prepare to die.

How exactly did one do that? Make peace with the Gods? With those whom you love or inadvertently wronged?

Dany was not ready.

Jon had never looked more defeated than when he had explained the parts of his brother’s prophecy that he knew. Dany and Sansa’s awareness of what was about to happen to one of them was the cause, that and Lord Baelish. Or rather, their awareness of what was about to happen to one of them plus Lord Baelish’s death would be. The moment Baelish's heart stopped, Dany, or Sansa, would have two fortnights left to live. The death would signal the start of the final chapter in Jon’s battle against the Others. Bran would not explain what he meant by that last part, but Jon suspected the words implied mankind’s defeat.

And so Jon had kept Baelish alive not out of ineptness, as Tyrion and Varys had assumed, but necessity. He theorized that after Baelish’s death, Baelish’s allies in the Northern court would come forward, as Baelish had promised they would, and their challenge to Jon’s claim to Winterfell would be the undoing of the seven kingdoms. Because once the North fell, who else in Westeros or Essos would be equipped to stop such a force?

Arya had been tasked with sussing out Baelish’s allies. The list consisted of about twenty names. Arya was not as of yet satisfied with the evidence against any of them though.

What a man the late Lord Eddard must’ve been to have raised women like Arya and Sansa. In these past few weeks at Winterfell, they had been one of the chief reasons for the dissolution of Dany’s enmity toward their father. How Dany wished now that she could meet him, and Jon’s mother, Dany’s sister-in-law, who supposedly was just as willful Arya.

To that end, it might’ve just been Dany, but the entire time Jon spoke, she could not help feeling like an interloper, as if the pain in his voice and the conscientiousness with which he chose his words had not been at all meant for her. Jon looked at them both, but when his gaze met Sansa’s there was a fire there that Dany found hard to ignore.

He loved her. And why shouldn’t he?

Dany thought back to that day in Winterfell’s courtyard when she swooped down upon Drogon’s back, how proudly Sansa had stood beside Jon and Ghost. She was fearless. Of course, he loved her. Of course. She’d been through so much, and she knew him, grew up with him. Whom else could he give his heart to?

This was the agony Ser Jorah and Daario had felt. Unable to stop loving someone who they knew did not love them back. If Dany could’ve cleaved her love out of her, she would’ve.

_Three heads has the dragon...Three fires must you light...one for life and one for death and one to love...Three mounts must you ride...one to bed and one to dread and one to love...Three treasons will you know...once for blood and once for gold and once for love..._

Love.

Dany could not bear being in Jon and Sansa’s presence after Jon had finished telling all. She had excused herself almost immediately, then had searched for Missandei, and Tyrion, but could not locate either of them.

As Dany retired now to her chambers, an old woman’s voice called out from behind her. “Your Grace. Your Grace! A moment.”

Dany stopped and turned around. Gods, these northerners were hardy. Dany had never seen such an old chambermaid before. How was she still able to work? Dany ordered her queensguard to let the hoary woman through. “What can I do for you?” she said.

“It’s what I can do for you, Your Grace.”

“For me?”

The old woman went into her apron.

Dany’s queensguard put their hands on their hilts. “Found this in the Godswood today I did,” the old woman said. “Been a long time since we’ve had ones like these here. Thought you should have it. A flower for the flower.” It was a rose, luscious and covered in frost and shaded a beautiful pale blue, almost the exact color of Jon’s eyes. Everyone relaxed. “Hope it cheers you up.”

Dany forced a smile. “Thank you.”

“Think nothin’ of it. You and King Jon and the Starks have been a light to us all. A light I tell ya. Winterfell hasn’t been this warm since before we lost Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn. Gods keep’em. Well, I’m sure you’ve got important doins to attend to, so I’ll take my leave if I may.” She curtsied as best she could and Dany gave her a nod.

* * *

There was a knock on the door. It opened before Dany could give a response.

“Are you all right?” Jon said.

“What are you doing here?”

“I came to check on you.” He shut the door but dared not step further into the room after he did. Coward. Typical. “You didn’t sup.”

“Could you imagine eating after being told that you’re about to die?”

“If I were about to die, I’d rather fancy eating my weight in Lemon cakes and Davos’ stew.”

He wasn’t funny. “You want it to be me, don’t you?”

“What? How could you--”

“Our betrothal is about strategy.”

Jon shook his head. “You don’t understand.”

“You love her.”

“Aye, she’s my sister. Of course I do.”

Dany had had about enough of his evasion. She would not be his play thing. She got up from her chair and stalked over to him. “And what am I? Your spare? The woman you'll only wear on important days, well, would’ve worn on important days?”

“She’s my fucking sister!”

“You certainly have that right.”

He invaded her space and said, “Lord Eddard sacrificed everything for me, his honor, his best friend, I almost cost him his bloody marriage. The man died protecting me. His family was torn apart because of me.” Jon and Dany had argued many times before, but Jon had never spoken to Dany like this, with so much...aggression. She was reminded of Drogo and the ache between her legs that she used to feel for him. “I swore to myself that, so long as there was still breath in me, I would never see any of his kin hurt again. And now...I have to accept the possibility that...and if that doesn’t happen, I lose...”

"Lose what? Say it,” Dany shouted. She hated him, hated his aloofness, hated his putrid need to always be so chivalrous. Her body was exploding with a fiery mix of rage and embarassment...and...and...She slapped him. “Say it!” Then again. “Say it!” And again. “ For once in your life! Reveal your--”

Jon grabbed Dany by her wrists. She struggled. They fell upon the bed. “Stop!” His chest heaved furiously up and down, up and down, as he lay on top of her. Dany felt her breasts press against him, felt her loins quiver and become moist as she felt him rise.

Damn him. Damn him to hell for making her feel so small. He had no idea. She had known love before, great love, from a passionate man who was unafraid to show her how he felt, who would never betray her for someone else. How dare Jon do this to her.

The fabric of Dany’s dress brushed across her nipples as she struggled against him, and she could not take it anymore. She stopped fighting. Dany’s deep purple eyes met Jon’s grey. Before she realized it, his mouth was on her neck and his hand was up her skirts, while her hands feverishly tried to unlace his breeches.


	25. SANSA

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so behind with this story! Going to try to update again on Sunday night. Stay tuned. This is probably going to run well into December now.

Sansa found her sister and Nymeria upon Winterfell’s battlements, their gazes fixed below, following Yara Greyjoy as she practiced her knifeplay. “What are you doing?” Sansa asked.

“Studying,” Arya answered. She might as well have been reading a book or one of those diagrams Jon always read about military strategy. Yara danced with her knife, struck at an invisible opponent. Arya ducked and weaved as if it were her.

“If you do it,” Sansa said, “you know Jon will have to choose.”

“Between me and the queen?” Arya didn’t take her eyes off Yara. “I don’t care. They have to pay for Rob and Rickon. And besides, unlike you, I have faith in Jon. I heard what you said to him yesterday morning...after...”

Sansa had thought they were alone. But she was hardly surprised her sister the shadow had somehow managed to be nearby without either she or Jon taking notice. “It’s for the best,” Sansa said. “She’s his betrothed, and I--”

“Oh shut up,” Arya said. “You act like you...like you...” It was hard for her to say it. Arya still saw Jon as her brother. “But I’m not sure you really do.” She couldn’t possibly believe that, could she? “If you truly...cared,” Arya whinced on the word, “you’d give Jon the chance to choose. Instead you’re being a coward and marrying that nunce Sweetrobin.”

Sansa wanted to tear her hair out. This was not a decision she had come to lightly. The way Jon had looked at Sansa when he told her and the queen about the prophecy...she didn’t need any more proof than that. She didn’t need to hear him say the words, didn’t need to feel his lips against hers, didn’t need to press her body against his. Jon had protected her, for as long as he could, even when Sansa had been angry at him and he knew that telling her truth would have changed that. Before she died, Sansa would be just as selfless. Her marriage to Sweetrobin wouldn’t be for long, not if she was destined to take her last breath sooner than later, but it would guarantee that no one, not Petyr, not the queen, not any lord in the seven kingdoms, would dare challenge Jon’s rule. He would be safe to fight, to lead.

The King in the North.

Sansa would inspire him, just as Bran had foretold she would.

“You don’t understand,” Sansa said.

Arya’s eyes finally left Yara and met Sansa’s. There was a fire, an intensity, in her that Sansa knew all too well. She had seen it in their father, in Jon--Rob had probably had it too--a fury that came to a boil whenever some injustice arose uncontested. Every Stark’s greatest strength. And fatal flaw.

“I understand perfectly,” Arya said. “You’d rather die a martyr than stay alive and fight for what you want. You and Jon...you both...” She and Nymeria made for the steps, the direwolf half a step ahead of the small woman. Arya stopped and looked back at Sansa. “You really are father’s daughter now.”

What was that supposed to mean? “I wasn’t before?” Arya followed Nymeria down the steps. “Answer me! I wasn’t before? I’ve always been father’s daughter! Come back here! Where are you going?”

Sansa stood alone upon the battlements for a long time after that, stewing in her rage and staring out at the horizon. A speck appeared in the sky. As it grew larger, it undulated up and down up and down. Eventually Sansa was able to make out wings and a tail. Rhaegal. Why was he flying so fast? It was like he--

“Milady,” an old woman’s voice behind Sansa said. Sansa turned around. One of the chambermaids. She was quite on in years. Sansa did not know her. She must’ve been one of the refugees from further north. “Begging your pardon, milady, but I was goin’ about me rounds this mornin’ when I found a patch of these growin’ in one of the gardens.” She held it up.

“A winter rose?” Sansa said. “We haven’t had these here in quite some time.”

“It’s a sign I think. King Jon has finally brought life back to this place. Here. You take it.”

“Oh no, I couldn’t.”

“Well, I can’t put it back in the ground, can I? Please, milady. A flower for a flower.”

She was so tiny and kind, and her love for Jon was so moving. Sansa relented and took the rose. “Thank you.”

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to me chores.” The old woman scurried down the steps.

Sansa looked up. Rhaegal was touching down now outside the castle. He roared and screeched as if in distress, but from what Sansa could see he had not a scratch upon him. She turned to see Jon rush out the gates to meet the dragon, the queen and Ser Davos in tow.


	26. BRAN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Been a minute since I've worked on this and since Season 8 and WOW aren't coming any time soon, I figured I might as well have some fun. No idea how long I'll be working on this one again, but I do intend to finish it. Also, let me know if you'd like to see the first Arya chapter reworked so that the reunion with Jon is longer and more drawn out.

Rhaegar was not quite the villain the stories had made him out to be, and Aunt Lyanna had not been the incapable damsel everyone had thought she was either. Bran knew this because he had gone back, let himself "swim under the sea" of time long past and watched their relationship unfold from the beginning. They had met at Lord Whent's great tournament to celebrate the name day of his daughter. Aunt Lyanna, Uncle Benjen, Uncle Brandon, and Bran's lord father had ridden to Harrenhal in Lord Rickard's stead. Bran's grandfather, like most northerners, did not believe in participating in tournaments. Why let a potential opponent see your skill before they had to? But Lord Rickard particularly did not care for this tournament. It was nothing more than Ser Walter Whent's inane peacocking about. Such ostentatious shows proved nothing, except the size of a man's purse, and that was something potential enemies should know even less about than a man's capacity to fight. So Lord Rickard wanted nothing to do with the farce of Harrenhal, yet he had known he could not ignore it either, not if King Aerys and Prince Rhaegar were coming. And so Bran's grandfather had sent his children to make appearances. Brandon and Lyanna were particularly keen to attend, Brandon in the hopes of participating in the joust, Lyanna in the hopes of seeing Robert Baratheon.  
  
The turn of events that had led to Lord Eddard keeping Jon's parentage a secret for almost twenty years began shortly after the Stark's host had arrived and made camp. Bran watched as his Aunt Lyanna said she was going for a walk instead of helping her brothers make up their tent. To which his Uncle Brandon had said indignantly, "You run off now, don't expect to be sleeping in here."  
  
"Am I not a delicate flower, brother," Aunt Lyanna said with a smirk, "a girl, as you so often have pointed out, who has no business doing men's work?" She looked to be fourteen or fifteen and was beautiful despite being made up like her brothers, riding attire similarly fashioned right down to her boots, a young woman who would not be couched.  
  
"Come on, Bran," Eddard said. Bran had to remind himself that his lord father was talking to his Uncle Brandon and not him. "We're almost finished. We don't need her. Let her go." Eddard winked at his sister. Bran could not believe his eyes. He winked. _Winked. _Who knew the man was capable?__  
  
"Fine," Uncle Brandon said. "But be back here well before the joust. You have to change."  
  
"Change?" Lyanna snapped. "Into what?"  
  
"A dress, you nunce," Brandon said. "You're a girl. Girls wear dresses to jousts."  
  
At that Aunt Lyanna spun around and walked away. Bran followed her. She reminded him so much of Arya, unwilling to accept the fate of becoming some lord's lady and raising a herd of his children. Bran wished he had brought his sister here to see this. She would've enjoyed it.  
  
It was not long before Aunt Lyanna happened upon three squires kicking and beating upon a crannogman. Bran watched as his aunt appeared to be processing a series of thoughts. A crannogman. The Neck. Perhaps he was a Reed or member of the Reed household guard.  
  
One of the boys had taken the crannogman's spear and was poking him with it, while the other two boys knocked him down every time he tried to rise to his feet.  
  
"What do you think you're doing?" Lyanna shouted. She ran full tilt towards the boy with spear and stepped in between him and the stout little man who couldn't have been much taller than she was. "This man is my father's bannerman."  
  
"And who the bloody hell is your father?" The squire holding the spear shouted.  
  
Lyanna puffed out her chest and looked down her nose at him. "Rickard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North."  
  
"Fuck off," said one of the other squires. "You mean to tell me you are--are what? I can't tell if this one's a boy or a girl."  
  
"I'm a girl."  
  
"Lyanna Stark?" The third squire said. "You expect us to believe Lyanna Stark is a girl who dresses like a boy? Fuck off."  
  
"Too right." The squire with the spear swung it at Aunt Lyanna.  
  
She slid underneath the strike, then kicked him in the back of the leg, sending him to his knees. Then she punched him, and the strength of the blow caused him to let go of the weapon and fall forward.  
  
The second and third squire looked at each other, and then the second shouted, "Get her." And then they came at her, grabbing for her. Aunt Lyanna sidestepped out of their reach and took hold of the arm of the boy closest to her. She stuck out her foot. His weight and momentum did the rest of the work. He came crashing down not far from the first squire, who'd been holding the spear.  
  
The third boy, even after having seen his friends thoroughly trounced, much to Bran's surprise, threw himself screaming headlong at Aunt Lyanna. He was big and quick, and she was not fast enough to get out of his path. They crashed to the ground with a thud, and the force of the landing and the weight of the boy on top of her knocked the breath out of Lyanna. Still, she managed to wrap her legs around him, a move Bran knew well that Ser Rodrik had made Robb and Jon practice many times, a last chance effort to turn the tables on an opponent in a dominant position. "Oh you like that, do you, " the boy said, clearly with no idea what was about to happen. "I'll give it you, deary, all right. Nice and rough."  
  
He pulled his arm all the way back, winding up. If the blow had hit Aunt Lyanna, she'd have been bloodied or knocked out for certain.  
  
But the strike never connected.  
  
The boy swung and Aunt Lyanna twisted to the side. She wrapped her arm around his arm and neck, putting his head in a lock, then squeezed. Arya had tried the same move many times when losing fights with her brothers, but she had never been able to master it, not until she became a faceless man.  
  
The first and second squires were back on their fight and coming to the aid of the third. Aunt Lyanna would have kept taking blows to her sides as she choked the third squire if not for the crannongman, who had finally recovered. He swept the second squire with the end of his spear, and then Aunt Lyanna, after making sure the third squire had passed out, grabbed the leg of the first and brought him to the ground too. She elbowed him in the back of the head, then rolled away and rose as he lay dazed.  
  
The crannongman kept his spear on the second squire. "Thank you for you help, Lady Lyanna. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Howland. Howland Reed."  
  
Aunt Lyanna panted, "Seven blessings." Then wiped at the sweat on her face. The first squire was up again, his eyes emblazoned on Aunt Lyanna and her now rat's nest of dark hair and the dirt and grass in it. She glared back at him, a crazed wolf who'd caught the scent of blood and was enjoying every bit of it. "Fancy another round, do you?"  
  
He gave ground, moved toward the passed out boy behind him. Howland Reed let the second boy up. The squires grabbed their unconscious friend by the arms and dragged him as fast as their legs would take the three of them away from Howland Reed and Aunt Lyanna.  
  
Howland Reed, blood dribbing from his lip, looked Aunt Lyanna up and down. "Pardon me for saying this, my lady, because I'm quite grateful for your assistance, but why are you here instead of getting into your dress for the joust?"


	27. JON

Jon wasn't sure how, but he knew when it had happened. He had been soaring high in the night sky above the Wolfswood, amongst the stars, searching for the red priestess Sansa's woman Brienne of Tarth had told him about, when something sharp had struck his breast. A constant, searing pain had followed, then spread all over his body until he was cold and it hurt to breath. His gasps for air had finally awoken him as he lay in bed next to his beloved Daenerys. She assured him that it had been nothing, just a bad dream. But if his dreams through Ghost's eyes had taught anything, it was that she was wrong. The next morning a dull ache remained as Jon broke fast. It grew stronger as the morning wore on. Then he had felt Rhaegal, calling out to him through his mind in the form of an itch in the back of his skull. The itch compelled him to go outside, to go to out the gate, to sprint to that patch of land between Winterfell and WinterTown where he and Rhaegal had first bonded, Davos and two guards quick on his heels unaware of why he was running or to where.  
  
When they found themselves before Rhaegal, after he'd crashed to the ground, Davos said to the guards, "What are you two waiting for? Don't just stand there. Help the bloody thing." And then the guards made a step towards the dragon. Rhaegal hissed with all his might at them, and they backed away like a pair of frightened children. The dragon's eyes had lost their sparkle.  
  
He doesn't seem to know where he is, Jon thought. "It's me, boy," Jon said. "It's Jon. I'm here." Ghost trotted up beside him. "Ghost too."  
  
The wolf slowly made his way toward the dragon, one step, two, a few more, and then a few more after that. Rhaegal whined and turned his head to watch Ghost. Ghost stepped closer to him again and sniffed the air, then howled. Drogon and Viserion came crashing down on either side of the wolf. For a second Jon thought they might attack him, but they did nothing except watch as Ghost inched closer and closer to their brother, the pair of them whining too. When Ghost was at the nape of Rhaegal's neck, he looked back at Jon, his mouth agape.  
  
Jon turned to Davos and noticed a crowd growing around the scene. "Keep everyone back," he said, then slowly made his way toward Ghost and Rhaegal. Viserion and Drogon watched him, spread their wings and chirped. What were they thinking, Jon wondered. They must know I have no intention of hurting him. Ghost came back to Jon and escorted him up to the wound.  
  
If you had asked Jon yesterday, he would've told you he did not think it possible to injure a dragon. The way they moved, it would take near perfect timing with a ballista to score a successful hit. And even if you did hit one, their scales were tougher than stone, and thick. Yet somehow a six-foot, rudimentary glaive had pierced Rhaegal's breast so deep it was nearly halfway through him. Rhaegal looked back at Jon, and for the first time, Jon could see that the dragon had been spitting up blood.  
  
Who could've done this, Jon thought.  
  
Jon heard Daenerys before he could see her. "Rhaegal, my boy, Rhaegal! Unhand me! Let me through! I said make way!" She was at his side before he could tell Davos to keep her back. She was still in the robe and small clothes she had put on this morning after they had made love again. "How bad is it? Will he live?" Daenerys ran her hand over the spot where the spear had pierced him then looked at Jon's chest. "This is where...are you all right?"  
  
"I'm fine," Jon said. Although that was not entirely true. He shared in Rhaegal's agony. Breathing was painful. His heart felt as if it were slowing. If the dragon died, would I die too, he wondered. "Davos, fetch some water and some clean linen. We must dress the wound. Here." He handed the old man the spear. "Take that to Sam and my brother. Perhaps they can figure out who it belongs to."  
  
"My child," Daenerys said. Jon had never seen her cry. Nothing was more important to her than these dragons. Would she ever love him so fiercely and without apology? Could she? Daenerys turned to Davos. "Put out word. Two hundred gold dragons for anyone who knows anything about what happened. And five hundred for the man who brings me the head of the person responsible."  
"Yes, your grace."  
  
Jon did not think it wise to offer so much while knowing so little to begin with, but Daenerys would not listen to reason when it came to her dragons, so he kept quiet.


	28. BRAN

The Starks had been placed at one of the honored benches beside House Whent's for the feast in the Hall of a Hundred Hearths. Howland Reed had expected to be sitting with their forty-some-odd bannerman from Houses Hornwood, Manderley, Dustin, and Mormont, but Bran's Aunt Lyanna had insisted he would be her and her brothers' guest at their table and she was hard to refuse. So Howland Reed sat amidst the Starks, as Lyanna and her brothers scoured the hall for the squires who she and Howland had encountered earlier. Bran thought he had never seen Howland Reed more at ease, and Bran understood now why his lord father had been so reluctant to talk about his childhood or his siblings.  
  
To have known such happiness and warmth, security, and then to have it all snatched away, it was like never going a day hungry and then suddenly being forced to watch all your food rot before you while you were starved. How happy Lord Eddard must've been when he and Bran's lady mother started a family of their own. Yes, that was a moment Bran must go back and see!  
  
"Ned, Ned, you bastard! Come'ere and tell the Lord Commander I can drink his arse under the table." Robert Baratheon was not so fat in his youth. Brandon's Lord Father hadn't exaggerated about that at all. Robert Baratheon was a giant, with a bass to his voice that could splinter wood. "Lyanna, my sweet, come down and be our judge for this drinking contest. I can entrust my victory to no one else." He threw his arm over Ser Richard Lonmouth's shoulder and Ser Richard tried to respond in kind but couldn't and the two of them barreled over laughing as they stood before the Starks and Howland Reed. "Who's this then?"  
  
"Go away," Uncle Benjen said.  
  
"Oh, have I offended you, little man, have I? Want to have a go?" Lord Robert mussed Uncle Benjen's hair. "Come on then."  
  
Benjen was out of his seat and climbing under the table when Aunt Lyanna said, "That's them, over there." She pointed at a trio of boys drinking beer on a bench in back right corner of the hall. The sigils they served were now on their tunics. House Frey, House Blount, and House Haigh.  
  
"Who's who over where?" Lord Robert said. He tried to follow Lyanna's finger, but as he spun he stumbled, tripped up by his own leg.  
  
"Are you sure?" Brandon asked. He leaned across his sister and looked at Howland Reed, who nodded.  
  
"What the bloody hell is going on?" Lord Robert said. "What are you all up to?"  
  
As Uncle Benjen slid back under the table and into his chair, Bran's Lord Father said, "Apologies, Robert, Ser Richard, but now is not a good time. Come back later and I'll judge your match. Be happy to see someone finally put you in your place, Robert."  
  
"Like hell he will," Lord Robert shouted, and then he and Ser Richard shared another laugh as they stomped off.  
  
Lord Eddard said to his sister and brothers and Howland, "That one in the middle there is Boros the Belly's squire, Tommen. I saw him try to ride down a girl of nine once. Would have gotten away with it if Robert hadn't knocked him off his horse."  
  
Lyanna looked up and searched the room for her betrothed. Robert, Ser Arthur Dayne, and Ser Richard were singing _A Cask of Ale _and spilling all over everyone around them. The smirk on Aunt Lyanna's face died. Bran suspected that she fancied Robert Baratheon a good man, a good friend, but nothing more. For he had watched her in the small hours of the morning reading love stories in Maester Kator's library. His aunt held queer views on matters of marriage and romance, not unlike those of his sister Sansa. A man like Robert Baratheon could never live up to such expectations. And for that, Bran was glad his aunt had never married him.__  
  
Brandon called over William Dustin and asked him if he knew who the other two squires were. "Aye, the wee one's a nephew or a cousin or some shite of Lord Harys and the other's a Frey bastard."  
  
Benjen said, "What should we do?"  
  
And Eddard said, "Nothing."  
  
"I shan't let them get away with what they did, Ned," Lyanna said. "To me or to Howland."  
  
"And I would never mean for you to," Eddard said. "But what do you all intend to do? Start a fight here, now, in middle of Lord Whent's party, with all the lords of Westeros and the prince and the king and his kingsguard in the room? How shall we go about explaining that to father? And how would that restore Howland's honor? He is the one who must be avenged, not you."  
  
"He's right," Brandon said. "What would you have us do for you, Lord Reed?"  
  
Howland looked at the wolves and the wolves looked at him. His face was blank, and his mouth lie open as if he might have to swallow the whole of a river at any moment. "I...I...I don't know."  
  
"I do," Benjen shouted. "We can get you a horse and some armor, and then you can challenge that fat Ser Boros and then Lord Haigh and then whatever Frey knight's put in the tourney tomorrow. And then--and then--and then you can take their horses and their armor and those squires will get tanned good for making those knights lose their belongings to a northrener."  
  
Brandon shoved his little brother. "Why must you always come up with the stupidest ideas?" Benjen shoved him back and stuck out his tongue.  
  
Lyanna said. "Howland, if that is what you wish, I'm sure there is something in our armory that will fit you." Howland Reed lowered his head. "Or we can have it made if you like."  
  
Prince Rhaegar stood next to his wife Elia, and the rest of the hall arose as well, as they all watched King Aerys retire for the evening. Once the king had disappeared from sight, Ser Barristan handed Prince Rhaegar his guitarra, and the prince began to play. The song was slow and melancholy, and Rhaegar's soft baritone wailed over the tune. The song was about a young man anguishing over the pain of losing his first love. Her soul had been trapped between duty and desire, and she had chosen duty, family, over what she'd truly wanted, him. Prince Rhaegar captivated the room as he described the torment. They broke apart then somehow found one another again. Then the gods separated them because their happiness meant doom for the world, and the couple tried to defy them, but the Smith forged a knight who was stronger than the young man and who took away his love.  
  
The song brought Lyanna to tears. Bran noted that she looked upon the prince the way Bran's lady mother had sometimes looked upon Lord Eddard, a peculiar gaze filled with something he was having more and more trouble understanding.  
  
"Are you crying?" Benjen asked. He laughed, and without a word, Lyanna took her wine cup, stood up, and poured the entirety of its contents on his head.


	29. DAVOS

Jon was fine the day Rhaegal returned, but at some point during that first night after the dragon's grave wounds had been discovered, something had happened to Jon and he had been abed the four days since. Maester Samwell could not figure out what was wrong. The King in the North could not catch his breath, he said, and Jon's lips were far too pale, and he moaned as if wounded, though Maester Samwell could find no new marks anywhere along his person. Davos and Lady Brienne suspected witchcraft. How could they not, knowing full well that a red woman was about and that Jon had ordered the Targaryens to turn her over. But Queen Daenerys wouldn't listen to them. "No, it's...Rhaegal. They are...the two of you must do whatever you can to save my dragon. Do you understand?"  
"Yes, your grace."  
"I actually don't understand, Ser Davos," Lady Brienne said. "The king is Lord Eddard's bastard, is he not?"  
Gods, why hadn't Lady Sansa explained it to her? "No, milady, he is not," Davos answered. "But his mother was a Stark." Davos could only hope that his poor attempt at Stannis like brevity and directness would give Brienne enough information for her to come to her own obvious conclusions on the matter.  
"I see," she said sharply. "Well, I suppose that explains Lady Sansa's recent behavior. Probably best then I inform her of the queen's instructions." "Alone?" Davos asked. Brienne's eyes seered into Davos's face, as if she herself had become a dragon and was spewing fire at him. "Absolutely not. My lord." She was angry, but at who? Davos? The King? Or the far more likely target, Lady Sansa? Regardless, Brienne obviously wanted Davos and Lady Sansa there to give answers to the questions she was restraining herself from asking now. And when they arrived at Lady Sansa's chambers, there were quite a few things Brienne was struggling with, Davos realized. How long had Lady Sansa and Davos known about the king's true parentage? Were the stories true then about Prince Rhaeger kidnapping Lyanna Stark? Had Lord Eddard known? How had he hidden the heir to the Iron Throne for so long without being found out? How had he hidden such a thing from her beloved Lady Catelyn, the poor woman? And then of course there were questions about Jon's relationship with the queen. The Targaryens had had all manner of inner marriage to keep their bloodlines pure, but had they ever wed an aunt to a nephew? How would that affect their children, if they had any? And then of course there was the question Brienne never asked but loomed large in the room. When Brienne finally decided to try and broach that topic, Lady Sansa immediately changed the subject to what the queen had ordered Brienne and Davos to do. "How dare she. That beast is not more important than the King in the North. _He _is your priority," she said to Davos and Brienne. "The two of you must do whatever you can to save my brother. Do you understand?"__  
"Yes, your grace."  
They left Lady Sansa's chambers caught between a shoal and the harbor. But Davos would not let them be shipwrecked, not if he had the last say on the matter. "Lady Brienne, I wonder if you wouldn't mind accompanying me on one more visit this fine evening." "Where?" Brienne asked. "The Maester's quarters in the rookery." "To what end, Ser Davos?" "To find out how we can split a babe." The answer brought no comfort to the tall woman, not just then. But when she heard Davos ask Maester Samwell to learn everything he could about dragon riders and their bond with their steeds, Lady Brienne couldn't help the smirk that fell upon on her face. As Maester Samwell began looking through his various books for at least something preliminary to tell them, odd creature that he was, Brienne said to Davos, "So the king's father--" "Oh Prince Rhaegar Targaryen," Maester Samwell shouted. "Did you know he anulled his marriage to Elia--"  
"Maester," Davos said, "how long before you we'll have some word on the bond between dragons and their riders?" If even one person heard his chirping away, it could be the end of the entire Stark/Targaryen alliance. Davos could never forgive himself if he allowed such a thing to happen. Jon and Lady Sansa had sacrificed too much, come too far. "The expedition to Castle Black was supposed to leave three days ago. We must know if it's worth continuing to postpone or if it should just be cancelled."  
"I'll do my best, Ser Davos. Work as fast I can."  
"Thank you, Maester." The fact that everything was riding on this poor lad did not bode well. But Davos knew better than to add to the boy's pressure. "We know you'll do everything you can."


End file.
